H  A  K  R  r      M^    O   U   i    R   t. 


^^ 


/^'Z> 


A   SHEPHERD'S   LIFE 


WORKS  OF  W.  H.  HUDSON 


The  Purple  Land 

Introduction  by  Theodore  Roosevelt 

A  Crystal  Age 

Foreword  by  Clifford  Smyth 

Dead  Man's  Plack  and  An  Old  Thorn 

Birds  in  Town  and  Village 

Illustrated  in  color 

Adventures  Among  Birds 

Head  and  Tail  Pieces  after  Bewick 

Birds  of  La  Plata  (2  vols.) 

Superbly  Illustrated 

Far  Away  and  Long  Ago 

With  Photogravure  Portrait 


Idle  Days  in  Patagonia 


A  Traveller  in  Little  Things 


Fully  Illustrated 


E.  P.  DUTTON  &  COMPANY 


s 
p 

Pi 

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■f) 

J 


A  SHEPHERD'S  LIFE 

IMPRESSIONS     OF     THE 
SOUTH   WILTSHIRE  DOWNS 


BY 


W.   H.    HUDSON 


ILLUSTRATED   BY 

BERNARD    C.    GOTCH 


iBJSlDI' 


NEW   YORK 
E.    P.    DUTTON    &   COMPANY 

681    FIFTH    AVENUE 
1921 


New  American  Edition 
Entirely  re-set 

Published  1921 
By  E.  P.  Button  &  Company 


All  Rights  Reserved 


PRINTED   IN    THE    UNITED   STATES   OF   AMERICA 


unf;  ■  rroRiNTA 

S/-  ,.:tA 


NOTE 

I  AM  obliged  to  Messrs.  Longmans,  Green,  &  Co.,  for 
permission  to  make  use  of  an  article  entitled  "A  Shep- 
herd of  the  Downs,"  which  appeared  in  the  October  and 
November  numbers  of  "Longmans'  Magazine,"  in  1902. 
With  the  exception  of  that  article,  portions  of  which  I 
have  incorporated  in  different  chapters,  the  whole  of  the 
matter  contained  in  this  work  now  appears  for  the  first 
time. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I     Salisbury   Plain 1 

II     Salisbury  as  I  see  it 17 

III  WiNTERBOURNE   BiSHOP 34 

IV  A  Shepherd  of  the  Downs 45 

V     Early  Memories 63 

VI    Shepherd  Isaac  Bawcombe 73 

VII    The   Deer-stealers 84 

VIII     Shepherds  and  Poaching 93 

IX    A  Shepherd  on  Foxes 104 

X     Bird-life  on  the  Downs 116 

XI     Starlings  and  Sheep-bells 127 

XII  The  Shepherd  and  the  Bible  ....  137 

XIII  Vale  of  the  Wylye 145 

XIV  A  Sheep-dog's  Life 159 

XV     Concerning  Cats 173 

XVI     The  Ellerbys  of  Doveton 190 

XVII     Old  Wiltshire  Days 200 

XVIII  Old  Wiltshire  Days  (continued)    .     .     .  214 

XIX    The  Shepherd's  Return 236 

XX  The  Dark  People  of  the  Village  .     .     .  245 

XXI     Some  Sheep-dogs 264 

XXII  The  Shepherd  as  Naturalist  ....  283 

XXIII  The  Master  of  the  Village     ....  293 

XXIV  Isaac's  Children 305 

XXV    Living  in  the  Past 319 

Index 333 

Vll 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 

Old   Sarum Frontispiece 


PACK 


Broad  Chalke  on  the  Ebble 1 

Turnip   Pecking 7 

The  Five  Rivers  of  Salisbury 9 

Old  Wiltshire  Horned  Sheep     .......  13 

Salisbury  Cathedral  from  the  Avon 17 

Carriers'  Carts,  Salisbury  Market 24 

Stalls  in  the  Market  at  Salisbury 28 

The  Market  House,  Salisbury 31 

Ebbesborne  Wake  on  the  Ebble  .      * 34 

Tilshead 39 

Idminster  on  the  Bourne 45 

Harnham  Bridge  over  the  Avon  at  Salisbury  ...  48 

Unloading  Sheep  at  the  Market 53 

The  Hurdlemaker 56 

Shrewton 63 

Shepherd  and  Flock 69 

Barford  St.  Martin  on  the  Nadder 73 

Near  Rollestone,  on  Salisbury  Plain 75 

Hurdle  Pitching 79 

Imber 84 

"Peacocks"  at  Barford  St.  Martin 86 

Gomeldon  on  the  Bourne 93 

ix 


X  LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS 


PACK 


Shepherds  and  their  Dogs 98 

Coombe  Bissett  on  the  Ebble 104 

Boscombe  on  the  Bourne 107 

Hurdle  and  Crib  Mending Ill 

Winterbourne   Stoke 116 

Allington  on  the  Bourne 121 

Upton  Lovell  on  the  Wylye 127 

Fining  the  Cribs 130 

Ansty  on  the  Nadder 137 

Carting  Water  for  the  Flock 140 

Codford  on  the  Wylye 143 

Fisherton  de  la  Mere  on  the  Wylye 145 

Titherington   Church 149 

Knook  Church  and  Manor  House  on  the  Wylye  .      .  152 

Wishford  on  the  Wylye 155 

Chitterne 159 

The  Lambing  Fold 163 

On  Guard 172 

Stockton  on  the  Wylye 173 

Winterbourne  Earls  on  the   Bourne 176 

Woodford  on  the  Avon 180 

Fovant  on  the  Nadder 182 

The  Bourne  at  Winterbourne  Gunner 190 

Salisbury  from  the  Race  Course 199 

Fonthill    Bishop 200 

Hindon         204 

Courtyard  of  "The  Lamb,"  Hindon 208 

Swallowcliffe  on  the  Nadder 214 

Joan        218 


LIST   OF    ILLUSTRATIONS  xi 


PAP.B 


Tithe  Barn,  Tisbury 233 

Newton  Tony  on  the  Bourne 236 

Burcombe  on  the  Nadder 245 

Misselfore,  Bower  Chalke 264 

In  the   Fold 268 

Shrewton 283 

Dwarf  Oaks  in  the  Great  Ridge  Wood     ....  286 

Chilmark 293 

Orcheston  St.  Mary 305 

The  Head  Shepherd 312 

Orcheston  St.  George 319 

Folding  for  the  Night 330 

White  Sheet  Hill  from  the  Shaftesbury  Road  ...  332 


A   SHEPHERD'S   LIFE 


^*'a^5^fc 


•  BROAD  CHALKE    o«  iKe   EbBLE  • 


A  SHEPHERD'S   LIFE 


CHAPTER   I 
Salisbury  Plain 

Introductory  remarks — Wiltshire  little  favoured  by  tour- 
ists— Aspect  of  the  downs — Bad  weather — Desolate 
aspect — The  bird-scarer — Fascination  of  the  downs 
— The  larger  Salisbury  Plain — Effect  of  the  military 
occupation  —  A  century's  changes  —  Birds  —  Old 
Wiltshire  sheep— Sheep-horns  in  a  well — Changes 
wrought  by  cultivation  —  Rabbit-warrens  on  the 
downs — Barrows  obliterated  by  the  plough  and  by 
rabbits 

Wiltshire  looks  large  on  the  map  of  England,  a  great 
green  county,  yet  it  never  appears  to  be  a  favourite  one 
to  those  who  go  on  rambles  in  the  land.  At  all  events 
I  am  unable  to  bring  to  mind  an  instance  of  a  lover  of 

1 


2  'A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

Wiltshire  who  was  not  a  native  or  a  resident,  or  had 
not  been  to  Marlborough  and  loved  the  country  on  ac- 
count of  early  associations.  Nor  can  I  regard  myself 
as  an  exception,  since,  owing  to  a  certain  kind  of  adap- 
tiveness  in  me,  a  sense  of  being  at  home  wherever  grass 
grows,  I  am  in  a  way  a  native  too.  Again  listen  to  any 
half-dozen  of  your  friends  discussing  the  places  they 
have  visited,  or  intend  visiting,  comparing  notes  about 
the  counties,  towns,  churches,  castles,  scenery — all  that 
draws  them  and  satisfies  their  nature,  and  the  chances 
are  that  they  will  not  even  mention  Wiltshire.  They 
all  know  it  "in  a  way";  they  have  seen  Salisbury 
Cathedral  and  Stonehenge,  which  everybody  must  go 
to  look  at  oncq  in  his  life;  and  they  have  also  viewed 
the  country  from  the  windows  of  a  railroad  carriage  as 
they  passed  through  on  their  flight  to  Bath  and  to  Wales 
with  its  mountains,  and  to  the  west  country,  which  many 
of  us  love  best  of  all — Somerset,  Devon,  and  Cornwall. 
For  there  is  nothing  striking  in  Wiltshire,  at  all  events 
to  those  who  love  nature  first;  nor  mountains,  nor  sea, 
nor  anything  to  compare  with  the  places  they  are  hasten- 
ing to,  west  or  north.  The  downs !  Ye's,  the  downs  are 
there,  full  in  sight  of  your  window,  in  their  flowing  forms 
resembling  vast,  pale  green  waves,  wave  beyond  wave, 
"in  fluctuation  fixed";  a  fine  country  to  walk  on  in  fine 
weather  for  all  those  who  regard  the  mere  exercise  of 
walking  as  sufficient  pleasure.  But  to  those  who  wish 
for  something  more,  these  downs  may  be  neglected,  since, 
if  downs  are  wanted,  there  is  the  higher,  nobler  Sussex 
range  within  an  hour  of  London.  There  are  others  on 
whom  the  naked  aspect  of  the  downs  has  a  repelling 
effect.     Like  Gilpin  they  love  not  an  undecorated  earth; 


SALISBURY    PLAIN  3 

and  false  and  ridiculous  as  Gilpin's  taste  may  seem  to 
me  and  to  all  those  who  love  the  chalk,  which  "spoils 
everything"  as  Gilpin  said,  he  certainly  expresses  a 
feeling  common  to  those  who  are  unaccustomed  to  the 
emptiness  and  silence  of  these  great  spaces. 

As  to  walking  on  the  downs,  one  remembers  that  the 
fine  days  are  not  so  many,  even  in  the  season  when  they 
are  looked  for — they  have  certainly  been  few  during 
this  wet  and  discomfortable  one  of  1909.  It  is  indeed 
only  on  the  chalk  hills  that  I  ever  feel  disposed  to  quarrel 
with  this  English  climate,  for  all  weathers  are  good  to 
those  who  love  the  open  air,  and  have  their  special  attrac- 
tions. What  a  pleasure  it  is  to  be  out  in  rough  weather 
in  October  when  the  equinoctial  gales  are  on,  "the  wind 
Eurodydon,"  to  listen  to  its  roaring  in  the  bending  trees, 
to  watch  the  dead  leaves  flying,  the  pestilence-stricken 
multitudes,  yellow  and  black  and  red,  whirled  away  in 
flight  on  flight  before  the  volleying  blast,  and  to  hear  and 
see  and  feel  the  tempests  of  rain,  the  big  silver-grey 
drops  that  smite  you  like  hail !  And  what  pleasure,  too, 
in  the  still  grey  November  weather,  the  time  of  suspense 
and  melancholy  before  winter,  a  strange  quietude,  like 
a  sense  of  apprehension  in  nature!  And  so  on  through 
the  revolving  year,  in  all  places  in  all  weathers,  there  is 
pleasure  in  the  open  air,  except  on  these  chalk  hills  be- 
cause of  their  bleak  nakedness.  There  the  wind  and 
driving  rain  are  not  for  but  against  you,  and  may  over- 
come you  with  misery.  One  feels  their  loneliness,  monot- 
ony, and  desolation  on  many  days,  sometimes  even  when 
it  is  not  wet,  and  I  here  recall  an  amusing  encoimter 
with  a  bird-scarer  during  one  of  these  dreary  spells. 

It  was  in  March,   bitterly  cold,  with  an  east  wind 


4  'A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

which  had  been  blowing  many  days,  and  overhead  the 
sky  was  of  a  hard,  steely  grey.  I  was  cycHng  along  the 
valley  of  the  Ebble,  and  finally  leaving  it  pushed  up  a 
long  steep  slope  and  set  off  over  the  high  plain  by  a  dusty 
road  with  the  wind  hard  against  me.  A  more  desolate 
scene  than  the  one  before  me  it  would  be  hard  to  imagine, 
for  the  land  was  all  ploughed  and  stretched  away  before 
me,  an  endless  succession  of  vast  grey  fields,  divided  by 
wire  fences.  On  all  that  space  there  was  but  one  living 
thing  in  -sight,  a  human  form,  a  boy,  far  away  on  the 
left  side,  standing  in  the  middle  of  a  big  field  with  some- 
thing which  looked  like  a  gun  in  his  hand.  Immediately 
after  I  saw  him  he,  too,  appeared  to  have  caught  sight 
of  me,  for  turning  he  set  off  running  as  fast  as  he  could 
over  the  ploughed  ground  towards  the  road,  as  if  intend- 
ing to  speak  to  me.  The  distance  he  would  have  to  run 
was  about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  and  I  doubted  that  he 
would  be  there  in  time  to  catch  me,  but  he  ran  fast  and 
the  wind  was  against  me,  and  he  arrived  at  the  road 
just  as  I  got  to.  that  point.  There  by  the  side  of  the 
fence  he  stood,  panting  from  his  race,  his  handsome 
face  glowing  with  colour,  a  boy  about  twelve  or  thirteen, 
with  a  fine  strong  figure,  remarkably  well  dressed  for  a 
bird-scarer.  For  that  was  what  he  was,  and  he  carried 
a  queer,  heavy-looking  old  gun.  I  got  off  my  wheel  and 
waited  for  him  to  speak,  but  he  was  silent,  and  continued 
regarding  me  with  the  smiling  countenance  of  one  well 
pleased  with  himself.  "Well?"  I  said,  but  there  was  no 
answer;  he  only  kept  on  smiling. 

"What  did  you  want?"  I  demanded  impatiently. 

"I  didn't  want  anything." 


SALISBURY   PLAIN  5 

"But  you  started  running  here  as  fast  as  you  could 
the  moment  you  caught  sight  of  me." 

"Yes,  I  did." 

"Well,  what  did  you  do  it  for — what  was  your  object 
in  running  here?" 

"Just  to  see  you  pass,"  he  answered. 

It  was  a  little  ridiculous  and  vexed  me  at  first,  but 
by  and  by  when  I  left  him,  after  some  more  conversation, 
I  felt  rather  pleased;  for  it  was  a  new  and  somewhat 
flattering  experience  to  have  any  person  run  a  long  dis- 
tance over  a  ploughed  field,  burdened  with  a  heavy  gun, 
"just  to  see  me  pass." 

But  it  was  not  strange  in  the  circumstances ;  his  hours 
in  that  grey,  windy  desolation  must  have  seemed  like 
days,  and  it  was  a  break  in  the  monotony,  a  little  joyful 
excitement  in  getting  to  the  road  in  time  to  see  a  passer- 
by more  closely,  and  for  a  few  moments  gave  him  a 
sense  of  human  companionship.  I  began  even  to  feel 
a  little  sorry  for  him,  alone  there  in  his  high,  dreary 
world,  but  presently  thought  he  was  better  off  and  better 
employed  than  most  of  his  fellows  poring  over  miserable 
books  in  school,  and  I  wished  we  had  a  more  rational 
system  of  education  for  the  agricultural  districts,  one 
which  would  not  keep  the  children  shut  up  in  a  room 
during  all  the  best  hours  of  the  day,  when  to  be  out  of 
doors,  seeing,  hearing,  and  doing,  would  fit  them  so 
much  better  for  the  life-work  before  them.  Squeers* 
method  was  a  wiser  one.  We  think  less  of  it  than  of 
the  delightful  caricature,  which  makes  Squeers  "a  joy 
for  ever,"  as  Mr.  Lang  has  said  of  Pecksniff.  But 
Dickens  was  a  Londoner,  and  incapable  of  looking  at 
this  or  any  other  question  from  any  other  than  the  Lon- 


6  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

doner's  standpoint.  Can  you  have  a  better  system  for 
the  children  of  all  England  than  this  one  which  will  turn 
out  the  most  perfect  draper's  assistant  in  Oxford  Street, 
or,  to  go  higher,  the  most  efficient  Mr.  Guppy  in  a  solici- 
tor's office?  It  is  true  that  we  have  Nature's  unconscious 
intelligence  against  us;  that  by  and  by,  when  at  the  age 
of  fourteen  the  boy  is  finally  released,  she  will  set  to 
work  to  undo  the  wrong  by  discharging  from  his  mind 
its  accumulations  of  useless  knowledge  as  soon  as  he 
begins  the  work  of  life.  But  what  a  waste  of  time  and 
energy  and  money!  One  can  only  hope  that  the  slow 
intellect  of  the  country  will  wake  to  this  question  some 
day,  that  the  countryman  will  say  to  the  townsman,  Go 
on  making  your  laws  and  systems  of  education  for  your 
own  children,  who  will  live  as  you  do  indoors;  while  I 
shall  devise  a  different  one  for  mine,  one  which  will  give 
them  hard  muscles  and  teach  them  to  raise  the  mutton 
and  pork  and  cultivate  the  potatoes  and  cabbages  on 
which  we  all  feed. 

To  return  to  the  downs.  Their  very  emptiness  and 
desolation,  which  frightens  the  stranger  from  them,  only 
serves  to  make  them  more  fascinating  to  those  who  are 
intimate  with  and  have  learned  to  love  them.  That 
dreary  aspect  brings  to  mind  the  other  one,  when,  on 
waking  with  the  early  sunlight  in  the  room,  you  look 
out  on  a  blue  sky,  cloudless  or  with  white  clouds.  It 
may  be  fancy,  or  the  effect  of  contrast,  but  it  has  always 
seemed  to  me  that  just  as  the  air  is  purer  and  fresher  on 
these  chalk  heights  than  on  the  earth  below,  and  as  the 
water  is  of  a  more  crystal  purity,  and  the  sky  perhaps 
bluer,  so  do  all  colours  and  all  sounds  have  a  purity  and 
vividness  and  intensity  beyond  that  of  other  places,     I 


SALISBURY    PLAIN  7 

see  It  in  the  yellows  of  hawk  weed,  rock-rose,  and  bird's- 
foot-trefoil,  in  the  innumerable  specks  of  brilliant  colour 
— blue  and  white  and  rose — of  milk-wort  and  squinancy- 
wort,  and  in  the  large  flowers  of  the  dwarf  thistle,  glow- 
ing purple  in  its  green  setting;  and  I  hear  it  in  every 
bird-sound,  in  the  trivial  songs  of  yellow-hammer  and 
corn-bunting,  and  of  dunnock  and  wren  and  whitethroat. 


•TURNIP    PECKING* 


The  pleasure  of  walking  on  the  downs  is  not,  however, 
a  subject  which  concerns  me  now;  it  is  one  I  have  written 
about  in  a  former  work,  "Nature  in  Downland,"  descrip- 
tive of  the  South  Downs.  The  theme  of  the  present 
work  is  the  life,  human  and  other,  of  the  South  Wiltshire 
Downs,  or  of  Salisbury  Plain.  It  is  the  part  of  Wilt- 
shire which  has  most  attracted  me.  Most  persons  would 
say  that  the  Marlborough  Downs  are  greater,  more  like 
the  great  Sussex  range  as  it  appears  from  the  Weald: 


8  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

but  chance  brought  me  farther  south,  and  the  character 
and  life  of  the  village  people  when  I  came  to  know  them 
made  this  appear  the  best  place  to  be  in. 

The  Plain  itself  is  not  a  precisely  defined  area,  and 
may  be  made  to  include  as  much  or  little  as  will  suit  the 
writer's  purpose.  If  you  want  a  continuous  plain,  with 
no  dividing  valley  cutting  through  it,  you  must  place  it 
between  the  Avon  and  Wylye  Rivers,  a  distance  about 
fifteen  miles  broad  and  as  many  long,  with  the  village  of 
Tilshead  in  its  centre;  or,  if  you  don't  mind  the  valleys, 
you  can  say  it  extends  from  Downton  and  Tollard  Royal 
south  of  Salisbury  to  the  Pewsey  vale  in  the  north,  and 
from  the  Hampshire  border  on  the  east  side  to  Dorset 
and  Somerset  on  the  west,  about  twenty-five  to  thirty 
miles  each  way.  My  own  range  is  over  this  larger  Salis- 
bury Plain,  which  includes  the  River  Ebble,  or  Ebele, 
with  its  numerous  interesting  villages,  from  Odstock  and 
Combe  Bisset,  near  Salisbury  and  "the  Chalks,"  to  pretty 
Alvediston  near  the  Dorset  line,  and  all  those  in  the 
Nadder  valley,  and  westward  to  White  Sheet  Hill  above 
Mere.  You  can  picture  this  high  chalk  country  as  an 
open  hand,  the  left  hand,  with  Salisbury  in  the  hollow 
of  the  palm,  placed  nearest  the  wrist,  and  the  five  valleys 
which  cut  through  it  as  the  five  spread  fingers,  from  the 
Bourne  (the  little  finger)  succeeded  by  Avon,  Wylye, 
and  Nadder,  to  the  Ebble,  which  comes  in  lower  down 
as  the  thumb  and  has  its  junction  with  the  main  stream 
below  Salisbury. 

A  very  large  portion  of  this  high  country  is  now  in 
a  transitional  state,  that  was  once  a  sheep-walk  and  is 
now  a  training  ground  for  the  army.  Where  the  sheep 
are  taken  away  the  turf  loses  the  smooth,  elastic  char- 


SALISBURY    PLAIN  9 

acter  which  makes  it  better  to  walk  on  than  the  most 
perfect  lawn.  The  sheep  fed  closely,  and  everything 
that  grew  on  the  down — grasses,  clovers,  and  numerous 


>alist 


uiy 


small  creeping  herbs — had  acquired  the  habit  of  growing 
and  flowering  close  to  the  ground,  every  species  and 
each  individual  plant  striving,  with  the  unconscious  intel- 
ligence that  is  in  all  growing  things,  to  hide  its  leaves 


10  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

and  pushing  sprays  under  the  others,  to  escape  the  nib- 
bhng  teeth  by  keeping  closer  to  the  surface.  There  are 
grasses  and  some  herbs,  the  plantain  among  them,  which 
keep  down  very  close  but  must  throw  up  a  tall  stem  to 
flower  and  seed.  Look  at  the  plantain  when  its  flowering 
time  comes ;  each  particular  plant  growing  with  its  leaves 
so  close  down  on  the  surface  as  to  be  safe  from  the 
busy,  searching  mouths,  then  all  at  once  throwing  up 
tall,  straight  stems  to  flower  and  ripen  its  seeds  quickly. 
Watch  a  flock  at  this  time,  and  you  will  see  a  sheep  walk- 
ing about,  rapidly  plucking  the  flowering  spikes,  cutting 
them  from  the  stalk  with  a  sharp  snap,  taking  them  off 
at  the  rate  of  a  dozen  or  so  in  twenty  seconds.  But  the 
sheep  cannot  be  all  over  the  downs  at  the  same  time, 
and  the  time  is  short,  myriads  of  plants  throwing  up  their 
stems  at  once,  so  that  many  escape,  and  it  has  besides  a 
deep  perennial  root  so  that  the  plant  keeps  its  own  life 
though  it  may  be  unable  to  sow  any  seeds  for  many 
seasons.  So  with  other  species  which  must  send  up  a 
tall  flower  stem;  and  by  and  by,  the  flowering  over  and 
the  seeds  ripened  or  lost,  the  dead,  scattered  stems  remain 
hke  long  hairs  growing  out  of  a  close  fur.  The  turf 
remains  unchanged;  but  take  the  sheep  away  and  it  is 
like  the  removal  of  a  pressure,  or  a  danger:  the  plant 
recovers  liberty  and  confidence  and  casts  off  the  old  habit ; 
it  springs  and  presses  up  to  get  the  better  of  its  fellows 
— to  get  all  the  dew  and  rain  and  sunshine  that  it  can — 
and  the  result  is  a  rough  surface. 

Another  effect  of  the  military  occupation  is  the  destruc- 
tion of  the  wild  life  of  the  Plain,  but  that  is  a  matter 
I  have  written  about  in  my  last  book,  "Afoot  in  England," 
in  a  chapter  on  Stonehenge,  and  need  not  dwell  on  here. 


SALISBURY    PLAIN  11 

To  the  lover  of  Salisbury  Plain  as  it  was,  the  sight  of 
military  camps,  with  white  tents  or  zinc  houses,  and  of 
bodies  of  men  in  khaki  marching  and  drilling,  and  the 
sound  of  guns,  now  informs  him  that  he  is  in  a  district 
which  has  lost  its  attraction,  where  nature  has  been 
dispossessed. 

Meanwhile,  there  is  a  corresponding*  change  going  on 
in  the  human  life  of  the  district.  Let  anyone  describe 
it  as  he  thinks  best,  as  an  improvement  or  a  deterioration, 
it  is  a  great  change  nevertheless,  which  in  my  case  and 
probably  that  of  many  others  is  as  disagreeable  to  con- 
template as  that  which  we  are  beginning  to  see  in  the 
down,  which  was  once  a  sheep-walk  and  is  so  no  longer. 
On  this  account  I  have  ceased  to  frequent  that  portion 
of  the  Plain  where  the  War  Office  is  in  possession  of 
the  land,  and  to  keep  to  the  southern  side  in  my  rambles, 
out  of  sight  and  hearing  of  the  "white-tented  camps" 
and  mimic  warfare.  Here  is  Salisbury  Plain  as  it  has 
been  these  thousand  years  past,  or  ever  since  sheep  were 
pastured  here  more  than  in  any  other  district  in  England, 
and  that  may  well  date  even  more  than  ten  centuries  back. 

Undoubtedly  changes  have  taken  place  even  here,  some 
very  great,  chiefly  during  the  last,  or  from  the  late  eigh- 
teenth century.  Changes  both  in  the  land  and  the  animal 
life,  wild  and  domestic.  Of  the  losses  in  wild  bird  life 
there  will  be  something  to  say  in  another  chapter;  they 
relate  chiefly  to  the  extermination  of  the  finest  species, 
the  big  bird,  especially  the  soaring  bird,  which  is  now 
gone  out  of  all  this  wide  Wiltshire  sky.  As  a  naturalist 
I  must  also  lament  the  loss  of  the  old  Wiltshire  breed  of 
sheep,  although  so  long  gone.  Once  it  was  the  only 
breed  known   in  Wilts,  and  extended   over  the  entire 


12  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

county ;  it  was  a  big  animal,  the  largest  of  the  fine-wooled 
sheep  in  England,  but  for  looks  it  certainly  compared 
badly  with  modern  downland  breeds  and  possessed,  it 
was  said,  all  the  points  which  the  breeder,  or  improver, 
was  against.  Thus,  its  head  was  big  and  clumsy,  with 
a  round  nose,  its-  legs  were  long  and  thick,  its  belly  with- 
out wool,  and  both  sexes  were  horned.  Horns,  even 
in  a  ram,  are  an  abomination  to  the  modern  sheep-farmer 
in  Southern  England.  Finally,  it  was  hard  to  fatten. 
On  the  other  hand  it  was  a  sheep  which  had  been  from 
of  old  on  the  bare  open  downs  and  was  modified  to  suit 
the  conditions,  the  scanty  feed,  the  bleak,  bare  country, 
and  the  long  distances  it  had  to  travel  to  and  from  the 
pasture  ground.  It  was  a  strong,  healthy,  intelligent 
animal,  in  appearance  and  character  like  the  old  original 
breed  of  sheep  on  the  pampas  of  South  America,  which 
I  knew  as  a  boy,  a  coarse-wooled  sheep  with  naked  belly, 
tall  and  hardy,  a  greatly  modified  variety  of  the  sheep 
introduced  by  the  Spanish  colonist  three  centuries  ago. 
At  all  events,  the  old  Wiltshire  sheep  had  its  merits,  and 
when  the  South  Down  breed  was  introduced  during  the 
late  eighteenth  century  the  farmer  viewed  it  with  dis- 
favour; they  liked  their  old  native  animal,  and  did  not 
want  to  lose  it.  But  it  had  to  go  in  time,  just  as  in  later 
times  the  South  Down  had  to  go  when  the  Hampshire 
Down  took  its  place — the  breed  which  is  now  universal, 
in  South  Wilts  at  all  events. 

A  solitary  flock  of  the  pure-bred  old  Wiltshire  sheep 
existed  in  the  county  as  late  as  1840,  but  the  breed  has 
now  so  entirely  disappeared  from  the  country  that  you 
find  many  shepherds  who  have  never  even  heard  of  it. 
Not  many  days  ago  I  met  with  a  curious  instance  of 


SALISBURY    PLAIN 


13 


this  ignorance  of  the  past.  I  was  talking  to  a  shepherd, 
a  fine  intelligent  fellow,  keenly  interested  in  the  subjects 
of  sheep  and  sheep-dogs,  on  the  high  down  above  the 
village  of  Broad  Chalk  on  the  Ebble,  and  he  told  me 
that  his  dog  was  of  mixed  breed,  but  on  its  mother's 
side  came  from  a  Welsh  sheep-dog,  that  his  father  had 
always  had  the  Welsh  dog,  once  common  in  Wiltshire, 


Old  Wiltshire 
norneo  sheep 


4,*»  '.*»» 


and  he  wondered  why  It  had  gone  out  as  It  was  so  good 
an  animal.  This  led  me  to  say  something  about  the 
old  sheep  having  gone  out  too,  and  as  he  had  never 
heard  of  the  old  breed  I  described  the  animal  to  him. 

What  I  told  him,  he  said,  explained  something  which 
had  been  a  puzzle  to  him  for  some  years.  There  was 
a  deep  hollow  in  the  down  near  the  spot  where  we  were 
standing,  and  at  the  bottom  he  said  there  was  an  old 
well  which  had  been  used  in  former  times  to  water  the 
sheep,  but  masses  of  earth  had  fallen  down  from  the 
sides,  and  in  that  condition  it  had  remained  for  no  one 
knew  how  long — perhaps  fifty,  perhaps  a  hundred  years. 
Some  years  ago  it  came  into  his  master's  head  to  have 
this  old  well  cleaned  out,  and  this  was  done  with  a  good 


14  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

deal  of  labour,  the  sides  having  first  been  boarded  over 
to  make  it  safe  for  the  workmen  below.  At  the  bottom 
of  the  well  a  vast  store  of  rams'  horns  was  discovered 
and  brought  out;  and  it  was  a  mystery  to  the  farmer 
and  the  men  how  so  large  a  number  of  sheep's  horns 
had  been  got  together;  for  rams  are  few  and  do  not 
di^  often,  and  here  there  were  hundreds  of  horns.  He 
understood  it  now,  for  if  all  the  sheep,  ewes  as  well  as 
rams,  were  horned  in  the  old  breed,  a  collection  like  this 
might  easily  have  been  made. 

The  greatest  change  of  the  last  hundred  years  is  no 
doubt  that  which  the  plough  has  wrought  in  the  aspect 
of  the  downs.  There  is  a  certain  pleasure  to  the  eye 
in  the  wide  fields  of  golden  corn,  especially  of  wheat, 
in  July  and  August ;  but  a  ploughed  down  is  a  down  made 
ugly,  and  it  strikes  one  as  a  mistake,  even  from  a  purely 
economic  point  of  view,  that  this  old  rich  turf,  the  slow 
product  of  centuries,  should  be  ruined  for  ever  as  sheep- 
pasture  when  so  great  an  extent  of  uncultivated  land 
exists  elsewhere,  especially  the  heavy  clays  of  the  Mid- 
lands, better  suited  for  corn.  The  effect  of  breaking  up 
the  turf  on  the  high  downs  is  often  disastrous;  the  thin 
soil  which  was  preserved  by  the  close,  hard  turf  is  blown 
or  washed  away,  and  the  soil  becomes  poorer  year  by 
year,  in  spite  of  dressing,  until  it  is  hardly  worth  culti- 
vating. Clover  may  be  grown  on  it,  but  it  continues 
to  deteriorate;  or  the  tenant  or  landlord  may  turn  it 
into  a  rabbit-warren,  the  most  fatal  policy  of  all.  How 
hideous  they  are — those  great  stretches  of  downland, 
enclosed  in  big  wire  fences  and  rabbit  netting,  with  little 
but  wiry  weeds,  moss,  and  lichen  growing  on  them,  the 
earth  dug  up  everywhere  by  the  disorderly  little  beasts! 


SALISBURY    PLAIN  15 

For  a  while  there  Is  a  profit — "it  will  serve  me  my  time," 
the  owner  says — but  the  end  is  utter  barrenness. 

One  must  lament,**  too,  the  destruction  of  the  ancient 
earth-works,  especially  of  the  barr.ows,  which  is  going 
on  all  over  the  downs,  most  rapidly  where  the  land  is 
broken  up  by  the  plough.  One  wonders  if  the  ever- 
increasing  curiosity  of  our  day  with  regard  to*  the  history 
of  the  human  race  in  the  land  continues  to  grow,  what 
our  descendants  of  the  next  half  of  the  century,  to  go 
no  further,  will  say  of  us  and  our  incredible"  carelessness 
in  the  matter!  So  small  a  matter  to  us,  but  one  which 
will,  perhaps,  be  immensely  important  to  them!  It  is, 
perhaps,  better  for  our  peace  that  we  do  not  know;  it 
would  not  be  pleasant  to  have  our  children's  and  children's 
children's  contemptuous  expressions  sounding  in  our  pro- 
phetic ears.  Perhaps  we  have  no  right  to  complain  of 
the  obliteration  of  these  memorials  of  antiquity  by  the 
plough;  the  living  are  more  than  the  dead,  and  in  this 
case  it  may  be  said  that  we  are  only  following  the 
Artemisian  example  in  consuming  (in  our  daily  bread) 
minute  portions  of  the  ashes  of  our  old  relations,  albeit 
untear fully,  with  a  cheerful  countenance.  Still  one  can- 
not but  experience  a  shock  on  seeing  the  plough  driven 
through  an  ancient,  smooth  turf,  curiously  marked  with 
barrows,  lynchetts,  and  other  mysterious  mounds  and 
depressions,  where  sheep  have  been  pastured  for  a  thou- 
sand years,  without  obscuring  these  chance  hieroglyphs 
scored  by  men  on  the  surface  of  the  hills. 

It  Is  not,  however,  only  on  the  cultivated  ground  that 
the  destruction  is  going  on;  the  rabbit,  too,  is  an  active 
agent  in  demolishing  the  barrows  and  other  earth-works. 
He  burrows  into  the  mound  and  throws  out  bushels  of 


16  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

chalk  and  clay,  which  is  soon  washed  down  by  the  rains; 
he  tunnels  it  through  and  through  and  sometimes  makes 
it  his  village ;  then  one  day  the  farmer  or  keeper,  who  is 
not  an  archaeologist,  comes  along  and  puts  his  ferrets 
into  the  holes,  and  one  of  them,  after  drinking  his  fill 
of  blood,  falls  asleep  by  the  side  of  his  victim,  and  the 
keeper  sets  to  work  with  pick  and  shovel  to  dig  him  out 
and  demolishes  half  the  barrow  to  recover  his  vile  little 
beast. 


CHAPTER   II 
Salisbury  as  I  See  It 

The  Salisbury  of  the  villager — The  cathedral  from  the 
meadows — Walks  to  Wilton  and  Old  Sarum — The 
spire  and  a  rainbow — Charm  of  Old  Sarum — The 
devastation — Salisbury  from  Old  Sarum — Leland's 
description — Salisbury  and  the  village  mind — Mar- 
ket-day— The  infirmary — The  cathedral — The  lesson 
of  a  child's  desire — In  the  streets  again — An  Apollo 
of  the  downs 

To  the  dwellers  on  the  Plain  Salisbury  itself  is  an  ex- 
ceedingly important  place — the  most  important  in  the 
world.  For  if  they  have  seen  a  greater — London,  let 
us  say — it  has  left  but  a  confused,  a  phantasmagoric 
image  on  the  mind,  an  impression  of  endless  thorough- 
fares and  of  innumerable  people  all  apparently   in   a 

17 


18  A   SHEPHERD'S   LIFE 

desperate  hurry  to  do  something,  yet  doing  nothing;  a 
labyrinth  of  streets  and  wilderness  of  houses,  swarming 
with  beings  who  have  no  definite  object  and  no  more  to 
do  with  realities  than  so  many  lunatics,  and  are  uncon- 
fined  because  they  are  so  numerous  that  all  the  asylums 
in  the  world  could  not  contain  them.  But  of  Salisbury 
they  have  a  very  clear  image:  inexpressibly  rich  as  it  is 
in  sights,  in  wonders,  full  of  people — hundreds  of  people 
in  the  streets  and  market-place — they  can  take  it  all  in 
and  know  its  meaning.  Every  man  and  woman,  of  all 
classes,  in  all  that  concourse,  is  there  for  some  definite 
purpose  which  they  can  guess  and  understand;  and  the 
busy  street  and  market,  and  red  houses  and  soaring  spire, 
are  all  one,  and  part  and  parcel  too  of  their  own  lives 
in  their  own  distant  little  village  by  the  Avon  or  Wylye, 
or  anywhere  on  the  Plain.  And  that  soaring  spire  which, 
rising  so  high  above  the  red  town,  first  catches  the  eye, 
the  one  object  which  gives  unity  and  distinction  to  the 
whole  picture,  is  not  more  distinct  in  the  mind  than  the 
entire  Salisbury  with  its  manifold  interests  and  activities. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  architecture  of  England  more 
beautiful  than  that  same  spire.  I  have  seen  it  many  times, 
far  and  near,  from  all  points  of  view,  and  am  never  in 
or  near  the  place  but  I  go  to  some  spot  where  I  look  at 
and  enjoy  the  sight;  but  I  will  speak  here  of  the  two 
best  points  of  view. 

The  nearest,  which  is  the  artist's  favourite  point,  is 
from  the  meadows;  there,  from  the  waterside,  you  have 
the  cathedral  not  too  far  away  nor  too  near  for  a  picture, 
whether  on  canvas  or  in  the  mind,  standing  amidst  its 
great  old  trees,  with  nothing  but  the  moist  green  meadows 
and  the  river  between.     One  evening,  during  the  late 


SALISBURY   AS    I    SEE    IT  19 

summer  of  this  wettest  season,  when  the  rain  was  begin- 
ning to  cease,  I  went  out  this  way  for  my  stroll,  the 
pleasantest  if  not  the  only  "walk"  there  is  in  Salisbury. 
It  is  true,  there  are  two  others:  one  to  Wilton  by  its 
long,  shady  av'enue;  the  other  to  Old  Sarum;  but  these 
are  now  motorrroads,  and  until  the  loathed  hooting  and 
dusting  engines  are  thrust  away  into  roads  of  their  own 
there  is  little  pleasure  in  them  for  the  man  on  foot.  The 
rain  ceased,  but  the  sky  was  still  stormy,  with  a  great 
blackness  beyond  the  cathedral  and  still  other  black  clouds 
coming  up  from  the  west  behind  me.  Then  the  sun, 
near  its  setting,  broke  out,  sending  a  flame  of  orange 
colour  through  the  dark  masses  around  it,  and  at  the 
same  time  flinging  a  magnificent  rainbow  on  that  black 
cloud  against  which  the  immense  spire  stood  wet  with 
rain  and  flushed  with  light,  so  that  it  looked  like  a  spire 
built  of  a  stone  impregnated  with  silver.  Never  had 
Nature  so  glorified  man's  work!  It  was  indeed  a  mar- 
vellous thing  to  see,  an  effect  so  rare  that  in  all  the  years 
I  had  known  Salisbury,  and  the  many  times  I  had  taken 
that  stroll  in  all  weathers,  it  was  my  first  experience  of 
such  a  thing.  How  lucky,  then,  was  Constable  to  have 
seen  it,  when  he  set  himself  to  paint  his  famous  picture! 
And  how  brave  he  was  and  even  wise  to  have  attempted 
such  a  subject,  one  which,  I  am  informed  by  artists  with 
the  brush,  only  a  madman  would  undertake,  however 
great  a  genius  he  might  be.  It  was  impossible,  we  know, 
even  to  a  Constable,  but  we  admire  his  failure  neverthe- 
less, even  as  we  admire  Turner's  many  failures;  but 
when  we  go  back  to  Nature  we  are  only  too  glad  to 
forget  all  about  the  picture. 

The  view  from  the  meadows  will  not,  in  the  future. 


20  (A.   SHEPHERD'S   LIFE 

I  fear,  seem  so  Interesting  to  me;  I  shall  miss  the  rain- 
bow, and  shall  never  see  again  except  in  that  treasured 
image  the  great  spire  as  Constable  saw  and  tried  to 
paint  it.  In  like  manner,  though  for  a  different  reason, 
my  future  visits  tjo  Old  Sarum  will  no  longer  give  me 
the  same  pleasure  experienced  on  former  occasions. 

Old  Sarum  stands  over  the  Avon,  a  mile  and  a  half 
from  Salisbury;  a  round  chalk  hill  about  300  feet  high, 
in  its  round  shape  and  isolation  resembling  a  stupendous 
tumulus  in  which  the  giants  of  antiquity  were  buried, 
its  steeply  sloping,  green  sides  ringed  about  with  vast, 
concentric  earth-works  and  ditches,  the  work  of  the  "old 
people,"  as  they  say  on  the  Plain,  when  referring  to  the 
ancient  Britons,  but  how  ancient,  whether  invading  Celts 
or  Aborigines — the  true  Britons,  who  possessed  the  land 
from  neolithic  times — even  the  anthropologists,  the  wise 
men  of  to-day,  are  unable  to  tell  us.  Later,  it  was  a 
Roman  station,  one  of  the  most  important,  and  in  after 
ages  a  great  Norman  castle  and  cathedral  city,  until  early 
in  the  thirteenth  century,  when  the  old  church  was  pulled 
down  and  a  new  and  better  one  to  last  for  ever  was  built 
in  the  green  plain  by  many  running  waters.  Church 
and  people  gone,  the  castle  fell  into  ruin,  though  some 
believe  it  existed  down  to  the  fifteenth  century;  but  from 
that  time  onwards  the  site  has  been  a  place  of  historical 
memories  and  a  wilderness.  Nature  had  made  it  a  sweet 
and  beautiful  spot;  the  earth  over  the  old  buried  ruins 
was  covered  with  an  elastic  turf,  jewelled  with  the  bright 
little  flowers  of  the  chalk,  the  ramparts  and  ditches  being 
all  overgrown  with  a  dense  thicket  of  thorn,  holly,  elder, 
bramble,  and  ash,  tangled  up  with  ivy,  briony,  and  trav- 
eller's-joy.   Once  only  during  the  last  five  or  six  centuries 


SALISBURY   AS    I    SEE    IT  21 

some  slight  excavations  were  made  when,  in  1834,  as 
the  result  of  an  excessively  dry  summer,  the  lines  of  the 
cathedral  foundations  were  discernible  on  the  surface. 
But  it  will  no  longer  be  the  place  it  was,  the  Society  of 
Antiquaries  having  received  permission  from  the  Dean 
and  Chapter  of  Salisbury  to  work  their  sweet  will  on 
the  site.  That  ancient,  beautiful  carcass,  which  had  long 
made  their  mouths  water,  on  which  they  have  now  fallen 
like  a  pack  of  hungry  hyenas  to  tear  off  the  old  hide  of 
green  turf  and  burrow  down  to  open  to  the  light  or  drag 
out  the  deep,  stony  framework.  The  beautiful  surround- 
ing thickets,  too,  must  go,  they  tell  me,  since  you  cannot 
turn  the  hill  inside  out  without  destroying  the  trees  and 
bushes  that  crown  it.  What  person  who  has  known  it 
and  has  often  sought  that  spot  for  the  sake  of  its  ancient 
associations,  and  of  the  sweet  solace  they  have  found  in 
the  solitude,  or  for  the  noble  view  of  the  sacred  city  from 
its  summit,  will  not  deplore  this  fatal  amiability  of  the 
authorities,  this  weak  desire  to  please  every  one  and 
inability  to  say  no  to  such  a  proposal ! 

But  let  me  now  return  to  the  object  which  brings  me 
to  this  spot ;  it  was  not  to  lament  the  loss  of  the  beautiful, 
which  cannot  be  preserved  in  our  age — even  this  best 
one  of  all  which  Salisbury  possessed  cannot  be  preserved 
— but  to  look  at  Salisbury  from  this  point  of  view.  It 
is  not  as  from  "the  meadows"  a  view  of  the  cathedral 
only,  but  of  the  whole  town,  amidst  its  circle  of  vast 
green  downs.  It  has  a  beautiful  aspect  from  that  point: 
a  red-brick  and  red-tiled  town,  set  low  on  that  circum- 
scribed space,  whose  soft,  brilliant  green  is  in  lovely 
contrast  with  the  paler  hue  of  the  downs  beyond,  the 
perennial  moist  green  of  its  water-meadows.     For  many 


11  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

swift,  clear  currents  flow  around  and  through  Salisbury, 
and  doubtless  in  former  days  there  were  many  more 
channels  in  the  town  itself.  Leland's  description  is  worth 
quoting:  "There  be  many  fair  streates  in  the  Cite  Sares- 
byri,  and  especially  the  High  Streate  and  Castle  Streate 
.  .  .  .  AI  the  Streates  in  a  maner,  in  New  Saresbyri, 
hath  little  streamlettes  and  arms  derivyd  out  of  Avon 
than  runneth  through  them.  The  site  of  the  very  town 
of  Saresbyri  and  much  ground  thereabout  is  playne  and 
low,  and  as  a  pan  or  receyvor  of  most  part  of  the  waters 
of  Wiltshire." 

On  this  scene,  this  red  town  with  the  great  spire,  set 
down  among  water-meadows,  encircled  by  paler  green 
chalk  hills,  I  look  from  the  top  of  the  inner  and  highest 
rampart  or  earth-work;  or  going  a  little  distance  down 
sit  at  ease  on  the  turf  to  gaze  at  it  by  the  hour.  Nor 
could  a  sweeter  resting-place  be  found,  especially  at  the 
time  of  ripe  elder-berries,  when  the  thickets  are  purple 
with  their  clusters  and  the  starlings  come  in  flocks  to 
feed  on  them,  and  feeding  keep  up  a  perpetual,  low 
musical  jangle  about  me. 

It  is  not,  however,  of  "New  Saresbyri"  as  seen  by  the 
tourist,  with  a  mind  full  of  history,  archaeology,  and  the 
aesthetic  delight  in  cathedrals,  that  I  desire  to  write,  but 
of  Salisbury  as  it  appears  to  the  dweller  on  the  Plain. 
For  Salisbury  is  the  capital  of  the  Plain,  the  head  and 
heart  of  all  those  villages,  too  many  to  count,  scattered 
far  and  wide  over  the  surrounding  country.  It  is  the 
villager's  own  peculiar  city,  and  even  as  the  spot  it  stands 
upon  is  the  "pan  or  receyvor,  of  most  part  of  the  waters 
of  Wiltshire,"  so  is  it  the  rece)rvor  of  all  he  accomplishes 
in  his  laborious  life,  and  thitherward  flow  all  his  thoughts 


SALISBURY   AS    I    SEE    IT  23 

and  ambitions.  Perhaps  it  is  not  so  difficult  for  me  as 
it  would  be  for  most  persons  who  are  not  natives  to 
identify  myself  with  him  and  see  it  as  he  sees  it.  That 
greater  place  we  have  been  in,  that  mighty,  monstrous 
London,  is  ever  present  to  the  mind  and  is  like  a  mist 
before  the  sight  when  we  look  at  other  places;  but  for 
me  there  is  no  such  mist,  no  image  so  immense  and  per- 
sistent as  to  cover  and  obscure  all  others,  and  no  such 
mental  habit  as  that  of  regarding  people  as  a  mere  crowd, 
a  mass,  a  monstrous  organism,  in  and  on  which  each 
individual  is  but  a  cell,  a  scale.  This  feeling  troubles 
and  confuses  my  mind  when  I  am  in  London,  where  we 
live  "too  thick";  but  quitting  it  I  am  absolutely  free;  it 
has  not  entered  my  soul  and  coloured  me  with  its  colour 
or  shut  me  out  from  those  who  have  never  known  it, 
even  of  the  simplest  dwellers  on  the  soil  who,  to  our 
sophisticated  minds,  may  seem  like  beings  of  another 
species.  This  is  my  happiness — to  feel,  in  all  places,  that 
I  am  one  with  them.  To  say,  for  instance,  that  I  am 
going  to  Salisbury  to-morrow,  and  catch  the  gleam  in 
the  children's  eye  and  watch  them,  furtively  watching 
me,  whisper  to  one  another  that  there  will  be  something 
for  them,  too,  on  the  morrow.  To  set  out  betimes  and 
overtake  the  early  carriers'  carts  on  the  road,  each  with 
its  little  cargo  of  packages  and  women  with  baskets  and 
an  old  man  or  two,  to  recognize  acquaintances  among 
those  who  sit  in  front,  and  as  I  go  on  overtaking  and 
passing  carriers  and  the  half-gipsy,  little  "general  dealer" 
in  his  dirty,  ramshackle,  little  cart  dravra.  by  a  rough, 
fast-trotting  pony,  all  of  us  intent  on  business  and 
pleasure,  bound  for  Salisbury — the  great  market  and 
emporium  and  place  of  all  delights  for  all  the  great  Plain. 


24 


A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 


I  remember  that  on  my  very  last  expedition,  when  I  had 
come  twelve  miles  in  the  rain  and  was  standing  at  a  street 
corner,  wet  to  the  skin,  waiting  for  my  carrier,  a  man 
in  a  hurry  said  to  me,  "I  say,  just  keep  an  eye  on  my 
cart  for  a  minute  or  two  while  I  run  round  to  see  some- 
body. I've  got  some  fowls  in  it,  and  if  you  see  anyone 
come  poking  round  just  ask  them  what  they  want — you 
can't  trust  every  one.     I'll  be  back  in  a  minute."    And 


'\S,".4^'*»      •• 


CARREERS    CARTS 

3WU3DUKY  rMsasix 


he  was  gone,  and  I  was  very  pleased  to  watch  his  cart 
and  fowls  till  he  came  back. 

Business  is  business  and  must  be  attended  to,  in  fair 
or  foul  weather,  but  for  business  with  pleasure  we  prefer 
it  fine  on  market-day.  The  one  great  and  chief  pleasure, 
in  which  all  participate,  is  just  to  be  there,  to  be  in  the 
crowd — a  joyful  occasion  which  gives  a  festive  look  to 
every  face.  The  mere  sight  of  it  exhilarates  like  wine. 
The  numbers — the  people  and  the  animals!  The  car- 
riers' carts  drawn  up  in  rows  on  rows — carriers  from  a 


SALISBURY   AS    I    SEE    IT  25 

hundred  little  villages  on  the  Bourne,  the  Avon,  the 
Wylye,  the  Nadder,  the  Ebble,  and  from  all  over  the 
Plain,  each  bringing  its  little  contingent.  Hundreds  and 
hundreds  more  coming  by  train;  you  see  them  pouring 
down  Fisherton  Street  in  a  continuous  procession,  all 
hurrying  market-vv^ards.  And  what  a  lively  scene  the 
market  presents  now,  full  of  cattle  and  sheep  and  pigs 
and  crowds  of  people  standing  round  the  shouting  auc- 
tioneers! And  horses,  too,  the  beribboned  hacks,  and 
ponderous  draught  horses  with  manes  and  tails  deco- 
rated with  golden  straw,  thundering  over  the  stone 
pavement  as  they  are  trotted  up  and  down!  And  what 
a  profusion  of  fruit  and  vegetables,  fish  and  meat,  and 
all  kinds  of  provisions  on  the  stalls,  where  women  with 
baskets  on  their  arms  are  jostling  and  bargaining!  The 
Corn  Exchange  is  like  a  huge  beehive,  humming  with 
the  noise  of  talk,  full  of  brown-faced  farmers  in  their 
riding  and  driving  clothes  and  leggings,  standing  in  knots 
or  thrusting  their  hands  into  sacks  of  oats  and  barley. 
You  would  think  that  all  the  farmers  from  all  the  Plain 
were  congregated  there.  There  is  a  joyful  contagion 
in  it  all.  Even  the  depressed  young  lover,  the  forlornest 
of  beings,  repairs  his  wasted  spirits  and  takes  heart  again. 
Why,  if  I've  seen  a  girl  with  a  pretty  face  to-day  I've  seen 
a  hundred — and  more.  And  she  thinks  they  be  so  few 
she  can  treat  me  like  that  and  barely  give  me  a  pleasant 
word  in  a  month!  Let  her  come  to  Salisbury  and  see 
how  many  there  be ! 

And  so  with  every  one  in  that  vast  assemblage — ^vast 
to  the  dweller  in  the  Plain.  Each  one  is  present  as  it 
were  in  two  places,  since  each  has  in  his  or  her  heart  the 
constant  image  of  home — the  little,  peaceful  village  in 


26  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

the  remote  valley;  of  father  and  mother  and  neighbours 
and  children,  in  school  just  now,  or  at  play,  or  home  to 
dinner — home  cares  and  concerns  and  the  business  in 
Salisbury.  The  selling  and  buying;  friends  and  relations 
to  visit  or  to  meet  in  the  market-place,  and — how  often ! 
— the  sick  one  to  be  seen  at  the  Infirmary.  This  home 
of  the  injured  and  ailing,  which  is  in  the  mind  of  so 
many  of  the  people  gathered  together,  is  indeed  the  cord 
that  draws  and  binds  the  city  and  the  village  closest 
together  and  makes  the  two  like  one. 

That  great,  comely  building  of  warm,  red  brick  in 
Fisherton  Street,  set  well  back  so  that  you  can  see  it  as 
a  whole,  behind  its  cedar  and  beech-trees — how  familiar 
it  is  to  the  villagers!  In  numberless  humble  homes,  in 
hundreds  of  villages  of  the  Plain,  and  all  over  the  sur- 
rounding country,  the  "Infirmary"  is  a  name  of  the 
deepest  meaning,  and  a  place  of  many  sad  and  tender 
and  beautiful  associations.  I  heard  it  spoken  of  in  a 
manner  which  surprised  me  at  first,  for  I  know  some 
of  the  London  poor  and  am  accustomed  to  their  attitude 
towards  the  metropolitan  hospitals.  The  Londoner  uses 
them  very  freely;  they  have  come  to  be  as  necessary  to 
him  as  the  grocer's  shop  and  the  public-house,  but  for 
all  the  benefits  he  receives  from  them  he  has  no  faintest 
sense  of  gratitude,  and  it  is  my  experience  that  if  you 
speak  to  him  of  this  he  is  roused  to  anger  and  demands 
"What  are  they  for?"  So  far  is  he  from  having  any 
thankful  thoughts  for  all  that  has  been  given  him  for 
nothing  and  done  for  him  and  for  his,  if  he  has  anything 
to  say  at  all  on  the  matter  it  is  to  find  fault  with  the 
hospitals  and  cast  blame  on  them  for  not  having  healed 
him  more  quickly  or  thoroughly. 


SALISBURY   AS    I    SEE    IT  27 

This  country  town  hospital  and  infirmary  is  differently 
regarded  by  the  villagers  of  the  Plain.  It  is  curious  to 
find  how  many  among  them  are  personally  acquainted 
with  it;  perhaps  it  is  not  easy  for  anyone,  even  in  this 
most  healthy  district,  to  get  through  life  without  sickness, 
and  all  are  liable  to  accidents.  The  injured  or  afflicted 
youth,  taken  straight  from  his  rough,  hard  life  and  poor 
cottage,  wonders  at  the  place  he  finds  himself  in — the 
wide,  clean,  airy  room  and  white,  easy  bed,  the  care 
and  skill  of  the  doctors,  the  tender  nursing  by  women, 
and  comforts  and  luxuries,  all  without  payment,  but 
given  as  it  seems  to  him  out  of  pure  divine  love  and 
compassion — all  this  comes  to  him  as  something  strange, 
almost  incredible.  He  suffers  much  perhaps,  but  can 
bear  pain  stoically  and  forget  it  when  it  is  past,  but  the 
loving  kindness  he  has  experienced  is  remembered. 

That  is  one  of  the  very  great  things  Salisbury  has 
for  the  villagers,  and  there  are  many  more  which  may 
not  be  spoken  of,  since  we  do  not  want  to  lose  sight  of 
the  wood  on  account  of  the  trees ;  only  one  must  be  men- 
tioned for  a  special  reason,  and  that  is  the  cathedral.  The 
villager  is  extremely  familiar  with  it  as  he  sees  it  from 
the  market  and  the  street  and  from  a  distance,  from  all 
the  roads  which  lead  him  to  Salisbury.  Seeing  it  he 
sees  everything  beneath  it — all  the  familiar  places  and 
objects,  all  the  streets — High  and  Castle  and  Crane 
Streets,  and  many  others,  including  Endless  Street,  which 
reminds  one  of  Sydney  Smith's  last  flicker  of  fun  before 
that  candle  went  out;  and  the  "White  Hart"  and  the 
"Angel"  and  "Old  George,"  and  the  humbler  "Goat"  and 
"Green  Man"  and  "Shoulder  of  Mutton,"  with  many 
besides;  and  the  great,  red  building  with  its  cedar-tree. 


28 


A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 


and  the  knot  of  men  and;  boys  standing  on  the  bridge 
gazing  down  on  the  trout  in  the  swift  river  below;  and 
the  market-place  and  its  busy  crowds — all  the  familiar 
sights  and  scenes  that  come  under  the  spire  like  a  flock 
of  sheep  on  a  burning  day  in  summer,  grouped  about  a 
great  tree  growing  in  the  pasture-land.  But  he  is  not 
familiar  with  the  interior  of  the  great  fane;  it  fails  to 


ST4U.3   uv»« 

M4RKET     at  SALISBURY 


draw  him,  doubtless  because  he  has  no  time  in  his  busy, 
practical  life  for  the  cultivation  of  the  aesthetic  faculties. 
There  is  a  crust  over  that  part  of  his  mind ;  but  it  need 
not  always  and  ever  be  so;  the  crust  is  not  on  the  mind 
of  the  child. 

Before  a  stall  in  the  market-place  a  child  is  standing 
with  her  mother — a  commonplace-looking,  little  girl  of 
about  twelve,  blue-eyed,  light-haired,  with  thin  arms 
and  legs,  dressed,  poorly  enough,  for  her  holiday.  The 
mother,  stoutish,  in  her  best  but  much-worn  black  gown 


SALISBURY   AS    I    SEE    IT  29 

and  a  brown  straw,  out-of-shape  hat,  decorated  with 
bits  of  ribbon  and  a  few  soiled  and  frayed,  artificial 
flowers.  Probably  she  is  the  wife  of  a  labourer  who 
works  hard  to  keep  himself  and  family  on  fourteen  shil- 
lings a  week ;  and  she,  too,  shows,  in  her  hard  hands  and 
sunburnt  face,  with  little  wrinkles  appearing,  that  she 
is  a  hard  worker;  but  she  is  very  jolly,  for  she  is  in 
Salisbury  on  market-day,  in  fine  weather,  with  several 
shillings  in  her  purse — a  shilling  for  the  fares,  and  per- 
haps eightpence  for  refreshments,  and  the  rest  to  be 
expended  in  necessaries  for  the  house.  And  now  to 
increase  the  pleasure  of  the  day  she  has  unexpectedly 
run  against  a  friend !  There  they  stand,  the  two  friends, 
basket  on  arm,  right  in  the  midst  of  the  jostling  crowd, 
talking  in  their  loud,  tinny  voices  at  a  tremendous  rate; 
while  the  girl,  with  a  half-eager,  half-listless  expression, 
stands  by  with  her  hand  on  her  mother's  dress,  and  every 
time  there  is  a  second's  pause  in  the  eager  talk  she  gives 
a  little  tug  at  the  gown  and  ejaculates  "Mother!"  The 
woman  impatiently  shakes  off  the  hand  and  says  sharply, 
"What  now,  Marty!  Can't  'ee  let  me  say  just  a  word 
without  bothering!"  and  on  the  talk  runs  again;  then 
another  tug  and  "Mother!"  and  then,  "You  promised. 
Mother,"  and  by  and  by,  "Mother,  you  said  you'd  take 
me  to  the  cathedral  next  time." 

Having  heard  so  much  I  wanted  to  hear  more,  and- 
addressing  the  woman  I  asked  her  why  her  child  wanted 
to  go.  She  answered  me  with  a  good-humoured  laugh. 
"  'Tis  all  because  she  heard  'em  talking  about  it  last  win- 
ter, and  she'd  never  been,  and  I  says  to  her,  'Never  you 
mind,  Marty,  I'll  take  you  there  the  next  time  I  go  to 
Salisbury.'  " 


30  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

"And  she's  never  forgot  it,"  said  the  other  woman. 

"Not  she — Marty  ain't  one  to  forget." 

"And  you  been  four  times,  Mother,"  put  in  the  girl. 

"Have  I  now !  Well,  'tis  too  late  now — half-past  two 
and  we  must  be  't  'Goat'  at  four." 

"Oh,  Mother,  you  promised!" 

"Well,  then,  come  along,  you  worriting  child,  and  let's 
have  it  over  or  you'll  give  me  no  peace ;"  and  away  they 
went.  And  I  would  have  followed  to  know  the  result  if 
it  had  been  in  my  power  to  look  into  that  young  brain 
and  see  the  thoughts  and  feelings  there  as  the  crystal- 
gazer  sees  things  in  a  crystal.  In  a  vague  way,  with 
some  very  early  memories  to  help  me,  I  can  imagine  it 
— the  shock  of  pleased  wonder  at  the  sight  of  that  im- 
mense interior,  that  far-extending  nave  with  pillars  that 
stand  like  the  tall  trunks  of  pines  and  beeches,  and  at 
the  end  the  light  screen  which  allows  the  eye  to  travel 
on  through  the  rich  choir,  to  see,  with  fresh  wonder  and 
delight,  high  up  and  far  off,  that  glory  of  coloured  glass 
as  of  a  window  half-open  to  an  unimaginable  place  be- 
yond— a  heavenly  cathedral  to  which  all  this  is  but  a 
dim  porch  or  passage ! 

We  do  not  properly  appreciate  the  educational  value 
of  such  early  experiences;  and  I  use  that  dismal  word 
not  because  It  is  perfectly  right  or  for  want  of  a  better 
one,  but  because  it  is  In  everybody's  mouth  and  under- 
stood by  all.  For  all  I  know  to  the  contrary,  village 
schools  may  be  bundled  In  and  out  of  the  cathedral  from 
time  to  time,  but  that  is  not  the  right  way,  seeing  that  the 
child's  mind  is  not  the  crowd-of-children's  mind.  But 
I  can  Imagine  that  when  we  have  a  wiser,  better  system  of 
education  in  the  villages,   in  which  books  will  not  be 


SALISBURY   AS    I    SEE    IT 


31 


everything,  and  to  be  shut  up  six  or  seven  hours  every 
day  to  prevent  the  children  from  learning  the  things  that 
matter  most — I  can  imagine  at  such  a  time  that  the 
schoolmaster  or  mistress  will  say  to  the  village  woman, 
"I  hear  you  are  going  to  Salisbury  to-morrow,  or  next 
Tuesday,  and  I  want  you  to  take  Janie  or  little  Dan  or 


TJIE   MARKET  HOCai: 
SALISBURY 


Peter,  and  leave  him  for  an  hour  to  play  about  on  the 
cathedral  green  and  watch  the  daws  flying  round  the  spire, 
and  take  a  peep  inside  while  you  are  doing  your 
marketing." 

Back  from  the  cathedral  once  more,  from  the  infirmary, 
and  from  shops  and  refreshment-houses,  out  In  the  sun 
among  the  busy  people,  let  us  delay  a  little  longer  for 
the  sake  of  our  last  scene. 

It  was  past  noon  on  a  hot,  brilliant  day  in  August, 
and  that  splendid  weather  had  brought  in  more  people 


32  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

than  I  had  ever  before  seen  congregated  in  Salisbury, 
and  never  had  the  people  seemed  so  talkative  and  merry 
and  full  of  life  as  on  that  day.  I  was  standing  at  a  busy 
spot  by  a  row  of  carriers'  carts  drawn  up  at  the  side  of 
the  pavement,  just  where  there  are  three  public-houses 
close  together,  when  I  caught  sight  of  a  young  man  of 
about  twenty-two  or  twenty-three,  a  shepherd  in  a  grey 
suit  and  thick,  iron-shod,  old  boots  and  brown  leggings, 
with  a  soft  felt  hat  thrust  jauntily  on  the  back  of  his 
head,  coming  along  towards  me  with  that  half -slouching, 
half-swinging  gait  peculiar  to  the  men  of  the  downs, 
especially  when  they  are  in  the  town  on  pleasure  bent. 
Decidedly  he  was  there  on  pleasure  and  had  been  indulg- 
ing in  a  glass  or  two  of  beer  (perhaps  three)  and  was 
very  happy,  trolling  out  a  song  in  a  pleasant,  musical 
voice  as  he  swung  along,  taking  no  notice  of  the  people 
stopping  and  turning  round  to  stare  after  him,  or  of 
those  of  his  own  party  who  were  following  and  trying 
to  keep  up  with  him,  calling  to  him  all  the  time  to  stop, 
to  wait,  to  go  slow,  and  give  them  a  chance.  There  were 
seven  following  him:  a  stout,  middle-aged  woman,  then 
a  grey-haired,  old  woman  and  two  girls,  and  last  a  young- 
ish, married  woman  with  a  small  boy  by  the  hand;  and 
the  stout  woman,  with  a  red,  laughing  face,  cried  out, 
"Oh,  Dave,  do  stop,  can't  'ee !  Where  be  going  so  fast, 
man — don't  'ee  see  we  can't  keep  up  with  'ee?"  But 
he  would  not  stop  nor  listen.  It  was  his  day  out,  his 
great  day  in  Salisbury,  a  very  rare  occasion,  and  he  was 
very  happy.  Then  she  would  turn  back  to  the  others 
and  cry,  "  'Tisn't  no  use,  he  won't  bide  for  us — did  'ee 
ever  see  such  a  boy!"  and  laughing  and  perspiring  she 
would  start  on  after  him  again. 


SALISBURY   AS    I    SEE    IT  33 

Now  this  incident  would  have  been  too  trivial  to  relate 
had  it  not  been  for  the  appearance  of  the  man  himself — 
his  powerful  and  perfect  physique  and  marvellously 
handsome  face — such  a  face  as  the  old  Greek  sculptors 
have  left  to  the  world  to  be  universally  regarded  and 
admired  for  all  time  as  the  most  perfect.  I  do  not  think 
that  this  was  my  feeling  only;  I  imagine  that  the  others 
in  that  street  who  were  standing  still  and  staring  after 
him  had  something  of  the  same  sense  of  surprise  and 
admiration  he  excited  in  me.  Just  then  it  happened  that 
there  was  a  great  commotion  outside  one  of  the  public- 
houses,  where  a  considerable  party  of  gipsies  in  their 
little  carts  had  drawn  up,  and  were  all  engaged  in  a 
violent,  confused  altercation.  Probably  they,  or  one  of 
them,  had  just  disposed  of  a  couple  of  stolen  ducks,  or 
a  sheepskin,  or  a  few  rabbits,  and  they  were  quarrelling 
over  the  division  of  the  spoil.  At  all  events  they  were 
violently  excited,  scowling  at  each  other  and  one  or  two 
in  a  dancing  rage,  and  had  collected  a  crowd  of  amused 
lookers-on;  but  when  the  young  man  came  singing  by 
they  all  turned  to  stare  at  him. 

As  he  came  on  I  placed  myself  directly  in  his  path  and 
stared  straight  into  his  eyes — grey  eyes  and  very  beau- 
tiful; but  he  refused  to  see  me;  he  stared  through  me 
like  an  animal  when  you  try  to  catch  its  eyes,  and  went 
by  still  trolling  out  his  song,  with  all  the  others  streaming 
after  him. 


CHAPTER    III 
Winterbourne  Bishop 

A  favourite  village — Isolated  situation — Appearance  of 
the  village — Hedge-fruit — The  winterbourne — Hu- 
man interest — The  home  feeling — Man  in  harmony 
with  nature — Human  bones  thrown  out  by  a  rabbit 
— A  spot  unspoiled  and  unchanged 

Of  the  few  widely  separated  villages,  hidden  away  among 
the  lonely  downs  in  the  large,  blank  spaces  between  the 
rivers,  the  one  I  love  best  is  Winterbourne  Bishop.  Yet 
of  the  entire  number — I  know  them  all  intimately — I 
daresay  it  would  be  pronounced  by  most  persons  the  least 
attractive.  It  has  less  shade  from  trees  in  summer  and 
is  more  exposed  in  winter  to  the  bleak  winds  of  this  high 
country,  from  whichever  quarter  they  may  blow.  Placed 
high  itself  on  a  wide,  unwooded  valley  or  depression,  with 
the  low,  sloping  downs  at  some  distance  away,  the  village 
is  about  as  cold  a  place  to  pass  a  winter  in  as  one  could 

34 


WINTERBOURNE    BISHOP  35 

find  in  this  district.  And,  it  may  be  added,  the  most 
inconvenient  to  hve  in  at  any  time,  the  nearest  town, 
or  the  easiest  to  get  to,  being  SaHsbury,  twelve  miles  dis- 
tant by  a  hilly  road.  The  only  means  of  getting  to  that 
great  centre  of  life  which  the  inhabitants  possess  is  by 
the  carrier's  cart,  which  makes  the  weary  four-hours' 
journey  once  a  week,  on  market-day.  Naturally,  not 
many  of  them  see  that  place  of  delights  oftener  than 
once  a  year,  and  some  but  once  in  five  or  more  years. 

Then,  as  to  the  village  itself,  when  you  have  got  down 
into  its  one  long,  rather  winding  street,  or  road.  This 
has  a  green  bank,  five  or  six  feet  high,  on  either  side, 
on  which  stand  the  cottages,  mostly  facing  the  road. 
Real  houses  there  are'  none — buildings  worthy  of  being 
called  houses  in  these  great  days — unless  the  three  small 
farm-houses  are  considered  better  than  cottages,  and  the 
rather  mean-looking  rectory — the  rector,  poor  man,  is 
very  poor.  Just  in  the  middle  part,  where  the  church 
stands  in  its  green  churchyard,  the  shadiest  spot  in  the 
village,  a  few  of  the  cottages  are  close  together,  almost 
touching,  then  farther  apart,  twenty  yards  or  so,  then 
farther  still,  forty  or  fifty  yards.  They  are  small,  old 
cottages;  a  few  have  seventeenth-century  dates  cut  on 
stone  tablets  on  their  fronts,  but  the  undated  ones  look 
equally  old;  some  thatched,  others  tiled,  but  none  par- 
ticularly attractive.  .Certainly  they  are  without  the  added 
charm  of  a  green  drapery — creeper  or  ivy  rose,  clematis, 
and  honeysuckle;  and  they  are  also  mostly  without  the 
cottage-garden  flowers,  unprofitably  gay  like  the  blossom- 
ing furze,  but  dear  to  the  soul ;  the  flowers  we  find  in  so 
many  of  the  villages  along  the  rivers,  especially  in  those 
of  the  Wylye  valley  to  be  described  in  a  later  chapter. 


36  ^A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

The  trees,  I  have  said,  are  few,  though  the  churchyard 
Is  shady,  where  you  can-  refresh  yourself  beneath  its 
ancient  beeches  and  its  one  wide-branching  yew,  or  sit 
on  a  tomb  in  the  sun  when  you  wish  for  warmth  and 
brightness.  The  trees  growing  by  or  near  the  street  are 
mostly  ash  or  beech,  with  a  pine  or  two,  old  but  not 
large;  and  there  are  small  or  dwarf  yew-,  holly-,  and 
thorn-trees.  Very  little  fruit  is  grown;  two  or  three  to 
half  a  dozen  apple-  and  damson-trees  are  called  an  or- 
chard, and  one  is  sorry  for  the  children.  But  in  late 
summer  and  autumn  they  get  their  fruit  from  the  hedges. 
These  run  up  towards  the  downs  on  either  side  of  the 
village,  at  right  angles  with  its  street ;  long,  unkept  hedges, 
beautiful  with  scarlet  haws  and  traveller's-joy,  rich  in 
bramble  and  elder  berries  and  purple  sloes  and  nuts — 
a  thousand  times  more  nuts  than  the  little  dormice  require 
for  their  own  modest  wants. 

Finally,  to  go  back  to  its  disadvantages,  the  village  is 
waterless;  at  all  events  in  summer,  when  water  is  most 
wanted.  Water  is  such  a  blessing  and  joy  in  a  village — 
a  joy  for  ever  when  it  flows  throughout  the  year,  as  at 
Nether  Stowey  and  Winsf  ord  and  Bourt'on-on-the-Water, 
to  mention  but  three  of  all  those  happy  villages  in  the 
land  which  are  known  to  most  of  us!  What  man  on 
coming  to  such  places  and  watching  the  rushing,  spark- 
ling, foaming  torrent  by  day  and  listening  to  its  splashing, 
gurgling  sounds  by  night,  does  not  resolve  that  he  will 
live  in  no  village  that  has  not  a  perennial  stream  in  it! 
This  unblessed,  high  and  dry  village  has  nothing  but 
the  winterbourne  which  gives  it  its  name ;  a  sort  of  sur- 
name common  to  a  score  or  two  of  villages  in  Wiltshire, 
Dorset,  Somerset,  and  Hants.    Here  the  bed  of  the  stream 


WINTERBOURNE    BISHOP  37 

lies  by  the  bank  on  one  side  of  the  village  street,  and 
when  the  autumn  and  early  winter  rains  have  fallen 
abundantly,  the  hidden  reservoirs  within  the  chalk  hills 
are  filled  to  overflowing ;  then  the  water  finds  its  way  out 
and  fills  the  dry  old  channel  and  sometimes  turns  the 
whole  street  into  a  rushing  river,  to  the  immense  joy  of 
the  village  children.  They  are  like  ducks,  hatched  and 
reared  at  some  upland  farm  where  there  was  not  even 
a  muddy  pool  to  dibble  In.  For  a  season  (the  wet  one) 
the  village  women  have  water  at  their  own  doors  and 
can  go  out  and  dip  pails  in  it  as  often  as  they  want. 
When  spring  comes  it  is  still  flowing  merrily,  trying  to 
make  you  believe  that  it  Is  going  to  flow  for  ever ;  beau- 
tiful, green  water-loving  plants  and  grasses  spring  up 
and  flourish  along  the  roadside,  and  you  may  see  comfrey 
and  water  forget-me-not  in  flower.  Pools,  too,  have 
been  formed  in  some  deep,  hollow  places ;  they  are  fringed 
with  tall  grasses,  whitened  over  with  bloom  of  water- 
crowfoot,  and  poa  grass  grows  up  from  the  bottom  to 
spread  its  green  tresses  over  the  surface.  Better  still, 
by  and  by  a  couple  of  stray  moorhens  make  their  appear- 
ance in  the  pool — strange  birds,  coloured  glossy  olive- 
brown,  slashed  with  white,  with  splendid  scarlet  and 
yellow  beaks !  If  by  some  strange  chance  a  shining  blue 
kingfisher  were  to  appear  it  could  not  create  a  greater 
excitement.  So  much  attention  do  they  receive  that 
the  poor  strangers  have  no  peace  of  their  lives.  It  is 
a  happy  time  for  the  children,  and  a  good  time  for  the 
busy  housewife,  who  has  all  the  water  she  wants  for 
cooking  and  washing  and  cleaning — she  may  now  dash 
as  many  pailfuls  over  her  brick  floors  as  she  likes.  Then 
the  clear,  swift  current  begins  to  diminish,  and  scarcely 


38  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

have  you  had  time  to  notice  the  change  than  it  is  alto- 
gether gone !  The  women  must  go  back  to  the  well  and 
let  the  bucket  down,  and  laboriously  turn  and  turn  the 
handle  of  the  windlass  till  it  mounts  to  the  top  again. 
The  pretty  moist,  green  herbage,  the  graceful  grasses, 
quickly  wither  away;  dust  and  straws  and  rubbish  from 
the  road  lie  in  the  dry  channel,  and  by  and  by  it  is  filled 
with  a  summer  growth  of  dock  and  loveless  nettles  which 
no  child  may  touch  with  impunity. 

No,  I  cannot  think  that  any  person  for  whom  it  had 
no  association,  no  secret  interest,  would,  after  looking 
at  this  village  with  its  dried-up  winterbourne,  care  to 
make  his  home  in  it.  And  no  person,  I  imagine,  wants 
to  see  it;  for  it  has  no  special  attraction  and  is  away 
from  any  road,  at  a  distance  from  everywhere.  I  knew 
a  great  many  villages  in  Salisbury  Plain,  and  was  always 
adding  to  their  number,  but  there  was  no  intention  of 
visiting  this  one.  Perhaps  there  is  not  a  village  on  the 
Plain,  or  anywhere  in  Wiltshire  for  that  matter,  which 
sees  fewer  strangers.  Then  I  fell  in  with  the  old  shep- 
herd whose  life  will  be  related  in  the  succeeding  chapter, 
and  who,  away  from  his  native  place,  had  no  story  about 
his  past  life  and  the  lives  of  those  he  had  known — no 
thought  in  his  mind,  I  might  almost  say,  which  was  not 
connected  with  the  village  of  Winterbourne  Bishop. 
And  many  of  his  anecdotes  and  reflections  proved  so 
interesting  that  I  fell  into  the  habit  of  putting  them  down 
in  my  notebook;  until  in  the  end  the  place  itself,  where 
he  had  followed  his  "homely  trade"  so  long,  seeing  and 
feeling  so  much,  drew  me  to  it.  I  knew  there  was 
"nothing  to  see"  in  it,  that  it  was  without  the  usual 
attractions;   that  there  was,   in   fact,   nothing   but   the 


WINTERBOURNE    BISHOP 


39 


human  interest,  but  that  was  enough.  So  I  came  to  it 
to  satisfy  an  idle  curiosity — just  to  see  how  it  would 
accord  with  the  mental  picture  produced  by  his  descrip- 
tion of  it.  I  came,  I  may  say,  prepared  to  like  the  place 
for  the  sole  but  sufficient  reason  that  it  had  been  his 
home.  Had  it  not  been  for  this  feeling  he  had  produced 
in  me  I  should  not,  I  imagine,  have  cared  to  stay  long 
in  it.    As  it  was,  I  did  stay,  then  came  again  and  found 


that  it  was  growing  on  me.  I  wondered  why;  for  the 
mere  interest  in  the  old  shepherd's  life  memories  did  not 
seem  enough  to  account  for  this  deepening  attachment. 
It  began  to  seem  to  me  that  I  liked  it  more  and  more 
because  of  its  very  barrenness — the  entire  absence  of 
all  the  features  which  make  a  place  attractive,  noble 
scenery,  woods,  and  waters;  deer  parks  and  old  houses, 
Tudor,  Elizabethan,  Jacobean,  stately  and  beautiful,  full 
of  art  treasures;  ancient  monuments  and  historical  asso- 
ciations.    There  were  none  of  these  things;  there  was 


40  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

nothing  here  but  that  wide,  vacant  expanse,  very  thinly 
populated  with  humble,  rural  folk — farmers,  shepherds, 
labourers — living  in  very  humble  houses.  England  is 
so  full  of  riches  in  ancient  monuments  and  grand  and 
interesting  and  lovely  buildings  and  objects  and  scenes, 
that  it  is  perhaps  too  rich.  For  we  may  get  into  the  habit 
of  looking  for  such  things,  expecting  them  at  every  turn, 
every  mile  of  the  way. 

I  found  it  a  relief,  at  Winterbourne  Bishop,  to  be  in 
a  country  which  had  nothing  to  draw  a  man  out  of  a 
town.  A  wide,  empty  land,  with  nothing  on  it  to  look 
at  but  a  furze-bush;  or  when  I  had  gained  the  summit 
of  the  down,  and  to  get  a  little  higher  still  stood  on  the 
top  of  one  of  its  many  barrows,  a  sight  of  the  distant 
village,  its  low,  grey  or  reddish-brown  cottages  half 
hidden  among  its  few  trees,  the  square,  stone  tower  of 
its  little  church  looking  at  a  distance  no  taller  than  a 
milestone.  That  emptiness  seemed  good  for  both  mind 
and  body:  I  could  spend  long  hours  idly  sauntering  or 
sitting  or  lying  on  the  turf,  thinking  of  nothing,  or  only 
of  one  thing — that  it  was  a  relief  to  have  no  thought 
about  anything. 

But  no,  something  was  secretly  saying  to  me  all  the 
time,  that  it  was  more  than  what  I  have  said  which  con- 
tinued to  draw  me  to  this  vacant  place — more  than  the 
mere  relief  experienced  on  coming  back  to  nature  and 
solitude,  and  the  freedom  of  a  wide  earth  and  sky.  I 
was  not  fully  conscious  of  what  the  something  more  was 
until  after  repeated  visits.  On  each  occasion  it  was  a 
pleasure  to  leave  Salisbury  behind  and  set  out  on  that 
long,  hilly  road,  and  the  feeling  would  keep  with  me  all 
the  journey,  even  in  bad  weather,  sultry  or  cold,  or  with 


WINTERBOURNE    BISHOP  41 

thC'  wind  hard  against  me,  blowing  the  white  chalk  dust 
into  my  eyes.  From  the  time  I  left  the  turnpike  to  go 
the  last  two  and  a  half  to  three  miles  by  the  side-road 
I  would  gaze  eagerly  ahead  for  a  sight  of  my  destina- 
tion long  before  it  could  possibly  be  seen ;  until,  on  gain- 
ing the  summit  of  a  low,  intervening  down,  the  wished 
scene  would  be  disclosed — the  vale-like,  wide  depression, 
with  its  line  of  trees,  blue-green  in  the  distance,  flecks 
of  red  and  grey  colour  of  the  houses  among  them — and 
at  that  sight  there  would  come  a  sense  of  elation,  like 
that  of  coming  home. 

This  in  fact  was  the  secret!  This  empty  place  was, 
in  its  aspect,  despite  the  difference  in  configuration  be- 
tween down  and  undulating  plain,  more  like  the  home  of 
my  early  years  than  any  other  place  known  to  me  in  the 
country.  I  can  note  many  differences,  but  they  do  not 
deprive  me  of  this  home  feeling;  it  is  the  likenesses  that 
hold  me,  the  spirit  of  the  place,  one  which  Is  not  a  desert 
with  the  desert's  melancholy  or  sense  of  desolation,  but 
inhabited,  although  thinly  and  by  humble-minded  men 
whose  work  and  dwellings  are  unobtrusive.  The  final 
effect  of  this  wide,  green  space  with  signs  of  human  life 
and  labour  on  it,  and  sight  of  animals — sheep  and  cattle 
— at  various  distances,  is  that  we  are  not  aliens  here, 
intruders  or  invaders  on  the  earth,  living  in  it  but  apart, 
perhaps  hating  and  spoiling  it,  but  with  the  other  animals 
are  children  of  Nature,  like  them  living  and  seeking  our 
subsistence  under  her  sky,  familiar  with  her  sun  and 
wind  and  rain. 

If  some  ostentatious  person  had  come  to  this  strangely 
quiet  spot  and  raised  a  staring,  big  house,  the  sight  of 
it  in  the  landscape  would  have  made  it  impossible  to  have 


42  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

such  a  feeling  as  I  have  described — this  sense  of  man's 
harmony  and  oneness  with  nature.  From  how  much  of 
England  has  this  expression  which  nature  has  for  the 
spirit,  which  is  so  much  more  to  us  than  beauty  of  scenery, 
been  blotted  out !  This  quiet  spot  in  Wiltshire  has  been 
inhabited  from  of  old,  how  far  back  in  time  the  barrows 
raised  by  an  ancient,  barbarous  people  are  there  to  tell  us, 
and  to  show  us  how  long  it  is  possible  for  the  race  of 
men,  in  all  stages  of  culture,  to  exist  on  the  earth  without 
spoiling  it. 

One  afternoon  when  walking  on  Bishop  Down  I  noticed 
at  a  distance  of  a  hundred  yards  or  more  that  a  rabbit 
had  started  making  a  burrow  in  a  new  place  and  had 
thrown  out  a  vast  quantity  of  earth.  Going  to  the  spot 
to  see  what  kind  of  chalk  or  soil  he  was  digging  so 
deeply  in,  I  found  that  he  had  thrown  out  a  human  thigh- 
bone and  a  rib  or  two.  They  were  of  a  reddish-white 
colour  and  had  been  embedded  in  a  hard  mixture  of 
chalk  and  red  earth.  The  following  day  I  went  again, 
and  there  were  more  bones,  and  every  day  after  that  the 
number  increased  until  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  had 
brought  out  the  entire  skeleton,  minus  the  skull,  which  I 
had  been  curious  to  see.  Then  the  bones  disappeared. 
The  man  who  looked  after  the  game  had  seen  them,  and 
recognizing  that  they  were  human  remains  had  judiciously 
taken  them  away  to  destroy  or  stow  them  away  in  some 
safe  place.  For  if  the  village  constable  had  discovered 
them,  or  heard  of  their  presence,  he  would  perhaps  have 
made  a  fuss  and  even  thought  it  necessary  to  communi- 
cate with  the  coroner  of  the  district.  Such  things  occa- 
sionally happen,  even  in  Wiltshire  where  the  chalk  hills 
are  full  of  the  bones  of  dead  men,  and  a  solemn  Crowner's 


WINTERBOURNE    BISHOP  43 

quest  is  held  on  the  remains  of  a  Saxon  or  Dane  or  an 
ancient  Briton.  When  some  important  person — a  Sir 
Richard  Colt  Hoare,  for  example,  who  dug  up  379  bar- 
rows in  Wiltshire,  or  a  General  Pitt  Rivers — throws  out 
human  remains  nobody  minds,  but  if  an  unauthorized 
rabbit  kicks  out  a  lot  of  bones  the  matter  should  be 
inquired  into. 

But  the  man  whose  bones  had  been  thus  thrown  out 
into  the  sunlight  after  lying  so  long  at  that  spot,  which 
commanded  a  view  of  the  distant,  little  village  looking 
so  small  in  that  immense,  green  space — who  and  what 
was  he  and  how  long  ago  did  he  live  on  the  earth — ^at 
Winterbourne  Bishop,  let  us  say?  There  were  two  bar- 
rows in  that  part  of  the  down,  but  quite  a  stone's-throw 
away  from  the  spot  where  the  rabbit  was  working,  so 
that  he  may  not  have  been  one  of  the  people  of  that 
period.  Still,  it  is  probable  that  he  was  buried  a  very 
long  time  ago,  centuries  back,  perhaps  a  thousand  years, 
perhaps  longer,  and  by  chance  there  was  a  slope  there 
which  prevented  the  water  from  percolating,  and  the 
soil  in  which  he  had  been  deposited,  under  that  close-knit 
turf  which  looked  as  if  it  had  never  been  disturbed,  was 
one  in  which  bones  might  keep  uncrumbled  for  ever. 

The  thought  that  occurred  to  me  at  the  time  was  that 
if  the  man  himself  had  come  back  to  life  after  so  long 
a  period,  to  stand  once  more  on  that  down  surveying  the 
scene,  he  would  have  noticed  little  change  in  it,  certainly 
nothing  of  a  startling  description.  The  village  itself, 
looking  so  small  at  that  distance,  in  the  centre  of  the 
vast  depression,  would  probably  not  be  strange  to  him. 
It  was  doubtless  there  as  far  back  as  history  goes  and 
probably  still  farther  back  in  time.     For  at  that  point, 


44  'A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

just  where  the  winterbourne  gushes  out  from  the  low 
hills,  is  the  spot  man  would  naturally  select  to  make  his 
home.  And  he  would  see  no  mansion  or  big  building, 
no  puff  of  white  steam  and  sight  of  a  long,  black  train 
creeping  over  the  earth,  nor  any  other  strange  thing.  It 
would  appear  to  him  even  as  he  knew  it  before  he  fell 
asleep — the  same  familiar  scene,  with  furze  and  bramble 
and  bracken  on  the  slope,  the  wide  expanse  with  sheep 
and  cattle  grazing  in  the  distance,  and  the  dark  green 
of  trees  in  the  hollows,  and  fold  on  fold  of  the  low 
down  beyond,  stretching  away  to  the  dim,  farthest 
horizon. 


^k«**^  ... 


IPMlNSTEft     OW  WE    BOUttNE 


CHAPTER   IV 
A  Shepherd  of  the  Downs 

Caleb  Bawcombe — An  old  shepherd's  love  of  his  home — 
Fifty  years'  shepherding — Bawcombe's  singular  ap- 
pearance— A  tale  of  a  titlark — Caleb  Bawcombe's 
father — Father  and  son — A  grateful  sportsman  and 
Isaac  Bawcombe's  pension — Death  following  death 
in  old  married  couples — In  a  village  churchyard — 
A  farm-labourer's  gravestone  and  his  story 

It  is  now  several  years  since  I  first  met  Caleb  Bawcombe, 
a  shepherd  of  the  South  Wiltshire  Downs,  but  already 
old  and  infirm  and  past  work.  I  met  him  at  a  distance 
from  his  native  village,  and  it  was  only  after  I  had  known 
him  a  long  time  and  had  spent  many  afternoons  and 
evenings  in  his  company,  listening  to  his  anecdotes  of 
his  shepherding  days,  that  I  went  to  see  his  own  old  home 
for  myself — the  village  of  Winterbourne  Bishop  already 
described,  to  find  it  a  place  after  my  own  heart.  But 
as  I  have  said,  if  I  had  never  known  Caleb  and  heard  so 

45 


46  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

much  from  him  about  his  own  Hfe  and  the  lives  of  many 
of  his  fellow-villagers,  I  should  probably  never  have 
seen  this  village. 

One  of  his  memories  was  of  an  old  shepherd  named 
John,  whose  acquaintance  he  made  when  a  very  young 
man — John  being  at  that  time  seventy-eight  years  old 
— on  the  Winterbourne  Bishop  farm,  where  he  had  served 
for  an  unbroken  period  of  close  on  sixty  years.  Though 
so  aged  he  was  still  head  shepherd,  and  he  continued  to 
hold  that  place  seven  years  longer — until  his  master, 
who  had  taken  over  old  John  with  the  place,  finally  gave 
up  the  farm  and  farming  at  the  same  time.  He,  too, 
was  getting  past  work  and  wished  to  spend  his  declining 
years  in  his  native  village  in  an  adjoining  parish,  where 
he  owned  some  house  and  cottage  property.  And  now 
what  was  to  become  of  the  old  shepherd,  since  the  new 
tenant  had  brought  his  own  men  with  him? — and  he, 
moreover,  considered  that  John,  at  eighty-five,  was  too 
old  to  tend  a  flock  on  the  hills,  even  of  tegs.  His  old 
master,  anxious  to  help  him,  tried  to  get  him  some  em- 
ployment in  the  village  where  he  wished  to  stay;  and 
failing  in  this,  he  at  last  offered  him  a  cottage  rent  free 
in  the  village  where  he  was  going  to  live  himself,  and, 
in  addition,  twelve  shillings  a  week  for  the  rest  of  his 
life.  It  was  in  those  days  an  exceedingly  generous  offer, 
but  John  refused  it.  "Master,"  he  said,  "I  be  going  to 
stay  in  my  own  native  village,  and  if  I  can't  make  a 
living  the  parish  '11  have  to  keep  I ;  but  keep  or  not  keep, 
here  I  be  and  here  I  be  going  to  stay,  where  I  were 
borned." 

From  this  position  the  stubborn  old  man  refused  to 
be  moved,  and  there  at  Winterbourne  Bishop  his  master 


A    SHEPHERD   OF   THE    DOWNS     47 

had  to  leave  him,  although  not  without  having  first  made 
him  a  sufficient  provision. 

The  way  in  which  my  old  friend,  Caleb  Bawcombe, 
told  the  story  plainly  revealed  his  own  feeling  in  the 
matter.  He  understood  and  had  the  keenest  sympathy 
with  old  John,  dead  now  over  half  a  century ;  or  rather, 
let  us  say,  resting  very  peacefully  in  that  green  spot  under 
the  old  grey  tower  of  Winterbourne  Bishop  church  where 
as  a  small  boy  he  had  played  among  the  old  gravestones 
as  far  back  in  time  as  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  cen- 
tury. But  old  John  had  long  survived  wife  and  children, 
and  having  no  one  but  himself  to  think  of  was  at  liberty 
to  end  his  days  where  he  pleased.  Not  so  with  Caleb, 
for,  although  his  undying  passion  for  home  and  his  love 
of  the  shepherd's  calling  was  as  great  as  John's,  he  was 
not  so  free,  and  he  was  compelled  at  last  to  leave  his 
native  downs,  which  he  may  never  see  again,  to  settle 
for  the  remainder  of  his  days  in  another  part  of  the 
country. 

Early  in  life  he  "caught  a  chill"  through  long  exposure 
to  wet  and  cold  in  winter;  this  brought  on  rheumatic 
fever  and  a  malady  of  the  thigh,  which  finally  affected 
the  whole  limb  and  made  him  lame  for  life.  Thus  handi- 
capped he  had  continued  as  shepherd  for  close  on  fifty 
years,  during  which  time  his  sons  and  daughters  had 
grown  up,  married,  and  gone  away,  mostly  to  a  consider- 
able distance,  leaving  their  aged  parents  alone  once  more. 
Then  the  wife,  who  was  a  strong  woman  and  of  an  enter- 
prising temper,  found  an  opening  for  herself  at  a  distance 
from  home  where  she  could  start  a  little  business.  Caleb 
indignantly  refused  to  give  up  shepherding  in  his  place 
to  take  part  in  so  unheard-of  an  adventure;  but  after 


48 


A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 


a  year  or  more  of  life  in  his  lonely  hut  among  the  hills 
and  cold,  empty  cottage  in  the  village,  he  at  length  tore 
himself  away  from  that  beloved  spot  and  set  forth  on 
the  longest  journey  of  his  life — about  forty-five  miles — 
to  join  her  and  help  in  the  work  of  her  new  home.  Here 
a  few  years  later  I  found  him,  aged  seventy-two,  but 
owing  to  his  increasing  infirmities  looking  considerably 
more.     When  he  considered  that  his  father,  a  shepherd 


K/«R>rMA>t    B 


ON    tt    aAI.l3BTJHY 


before  him  on  those  same  Wiltshire  Downs,  lived  to 
eighty-six,  and  his  mother  to  eighty-four,  and  that  both 
were  vigorous  and  led  active  lives  almost  to  the  end,  he 
thought  it  strange  that  his  own  work  should  be  so  soon 
done.  For  in  heart  and  mind  he  was  still  young;  he 
did  not  want  to  rest  yet. 

Since  that  first  meeting  nine  years  have  passed,  and 
as  he  is  actually  better  in  health  to-day  than  he  was 
then,  there  is  good  reason  to  hope  that  his  staying  power 
will  equal  that  of  his  father. 


A:   SHEPHERD    OF   THE    DOWNS     49 

I  was  at  first  struck  with  the  singularity  of  Caleb's 
appearance,  and  later  by  the  expression  of  his  eyes.  A 
very  tall,  big-boned,  lean,  round-shouldered  man,  he 
was  uncouth  almost  to  the  verge  of  grotesqueness,  and 
walked  painfully  with  the  aid  of  a  stick,  dragging  his 
shrunken  and  shortened  bad  leg.  His  head  was  long 
and  narrow,  and  his  high  forehead,  long  nose,  long  chin, 
and  long,  coarse,  grey  whiskers,  worn  like  a  beard  on 
his  throat,  produced  a  goat-like  effect.  This  was  height- 
ened by  the  ears  and  eyes.  The  big  ears  stood  out  from 
his  head,  and  owing  to  a  peculiar  bend  or  curl  in  the 
membrane  at  the  top  they  looked  at  certain  angles  almost 
pointed.  The  hazel  eyes  were  wonderfully  clear,  but 
that  quality  was  less  remarkable  than  the  unhuman  in- 
telligence in  them — fawn-like  eyes  that  gazed  steadily 
at  you  as  one  may  gaze  through  the  window,  open  back 
and  front,  of  a  house  at  the  landscape  beyond.  This 
peculiarity  was  a  little  disconcerting  at  first,  when,  after 
making  his  acquaintance  out  of  doors,  I  went  in  uninvited 
and  sat  down  with  him  at  his  own  fireside.  The  busy 
old  wife  talked  of  this  and  that,  and  hinted  as  politely 
as  she  knew  how  that  I  was  in  her  way.  To  her  practical, 
peasant  mind  there  was  no  sense  in  my  being  there.  "He 
be  a  stranger  to  we,  and  we  be  strangers  to  he."  Caleb 
was  silent,  and  his  clear  eyes  showed  neither  annoyance 
nor  pleasure  but  only  their  native,  wild  alertness,  but 
the  caste  feeling  is  always  less  strong  in  the  hill  shepherd 
than  in  other  men  who  are  on  the  land;  in  some  cases 
it  will  vanish  at  a  touch,  and  it  was  so  in  this  one.  A 
canary  in  a  cage  hanging  in  the  kitchen  served  to  intro- 
duce the  subject  of  birds  captive  and  birds  free.  I  said 
that  I  liked  the  little  yellow  bird,  and  was  not  vexed  to 


so  A   SHEPHERD'S   LIFE 

see  him  in  a  cage,  since  he  was  cage-born ;  but  I  considered, 
that  those  who  caught  wild  birds  and  kept  them  prisoners 
did  not  properly  understand  things.  This  happened  to 
be  Caleb's  view.  He  had  a  curiously  tender  feeling  about 
the  little  wild  birds,  and  one  amusing  incident  of  his 
boyhood  which  he  remembered  came  out  during  our  talk. 
He  was  out  on  the  down  one  summer  day  in  charge  of 
his  father's  flock,  when  two  boys  of  the  village  on  a 
ramble  in  the  hills  came  and  sat  down  on  the  turf  by  his 
side.  One  of  them  had  a  titlark,  or  meadow  pipit,  which 
he  had  just  caught,  in  his  hand,  and  there  was  a  hot 
argument  as  to  which  of  the  two  was  the  lawful  owner 
of  the  poor  little  captive.  The  facts  were  as  follows. 
One  of  the  boys  having  found  the  nest  became  possessed 
with  the  desire  to  get  the  bird.  His  companion  at  once 
offered  to  catch  it  for  him,  and  together  they  withdrew 
to  a  distance  and  sat  down  and  waited  until  the  bird  re- 
turned to  sit  on  the  eggs.  Then  the  young  birdcatcher 
returned  to  the  spot,  and  creeping  quietly  up  to  within 
five  or  six  feet  of  the  nest  threw  his  hat  so  that  it  fell 
over  the  sitting  titlark;  but  after  having  thus  secured 
it  he  refused  to  give  it  up.  The  dispute  waxed  hotter 
as  they  sat  there,  and  at  last  when  it  got  to  the  point  of 
threats  of  cuffs  on  the  ear  and  slaps  on  the  face  they 
agreed  to  fight  it  out,  the  victor  to  have  the  titlark.  The 
bird  was  then  put  under  a  hat  for  safety  on  the  smooth 
turf  a  few  feet  away,  and  the  boys  proceeded  to  take 
off  their  jackets  and  roll  up  their  shirt-sleeves,  after 
which  they  faced  one  another,  and  were  just  about  to 
begin  when  Caleb,  thrusting  out  his  crook,  turned  the 
hat  over  and  away  flew  the  titlark. 

The  boys,  deprived  of  their  bird  and  of  an  excuse  for 


A   SHEPHERD    OF   THE    DOWNS     51 

a  fight,  would  gladly  have  discharged  their  fury  on  Caleb, 
but  they  durst  not,  seeing  that  his  dog  was  lying  at  his 
side;  they  could  only  threaten  and  abuse  him,  call  him 
bad  names,  and  finally  put  on  their  coats  and  walk  off. 

That  pretty  little  tale  of  a  titlark  was  but  the  first  of 
a  long  succession  of  memories  of  his  early  years,  with 
half  a  century  of  shepherding  life  on  the  downs,  which 
came  out  during  our  talks  on  many  autumn  and  winter 
evenings  as  we  sat  by  his  kitchen  fire.  The  earlier  of 
these  memories  were  always  the  best  to  me,  because 
they  took  one  back  sixty  years  or  more,  to  a  time  when 
there  was  more  wildness  in  the  earth  than  now,  and  a 
nobler  wild  animal  life.  Even  more  interesting  were 
some  of  the  memories  of  his  father,  Isaac  Bawcombe, 
whose  time  went  back  to  the  early  years  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  Caleb  cherished  an  admiration  and  reverence 
for  his  father's  memory  which  were  almost  a  worship, 
and  he  loved  to  describe  him  as  he  appeared  in  his  old 
age,  when  upwards  of  eighty.  He  was  erect  and  tall, 
standing  six  feet  two  in  height,  well  proportioned,  with 
a  clean-shaved,  florid  face,  clear,  dark  eyes,  and  silver- 
white  hair;  and  at  this  later  period  of  his  life  he  always 
wore  the  dress  of  an  old  order  of  pensioners  to  which 
he  had  been  admitted — a  soft,  broad,  white  felt  hat,  thick 
boots  and  brown  leather  leggings,  and  a  long,  grey  cloth 
overcoat  with  red  collar  and  brass  buttons. 

According  to  Caleb,  he  must  have  been  an  exceedingly 
fine  specimen  of  a  man,  both  physically  and  morally. 
Born  in  1800,  he  began  following  a  flock  as  a  boy,  and 
continued  as  shepherd  on  the  same  farm  until  he  was 
sixty,  never  rising  to  more  than  seven  shillings  a  week 
and  nothing  found,  since  he  lived  in  the  cottage  where 


52  A   SHEPHERD'S   LIFE 

he  was  born  and  which  he  inherited  from  his  father. 
That  a  man  of  his  fine  powers,  a  head-shepherd  on  a 
large  hill-farm,  should  have  had  no  better  pay  than  that 
down  to  the  year  1860,  after  nearly  half  a  century  of 
work  in  one  place,  seems  almost  incredible.  Even  his 
sons,  as  they  grew  up  to  man's  estate,  advised  him  to 
ask  for  an  increase,  but  he  would  not.  Seven  shillings 
a  week  he  had  always  had;  and  that  small  sum,  with 
something  his  wife  earned  by  making  highly  finished 
smock-frocks,  had  been  sufficient  to  keep  them  all  in 
a  decent  way;  and  his  sons  were  now  all  earning  their 
own  living.  But  Caleb  got  married,  and  resolved  to 
leave  the  old  farm  at  Bishop  to  take  a  better  place  at  a 
distance  from  home,  at  Warminster,  which  had  been 
offered  him.  He  would  tliere  have  a  cottage  to  live  in, 
nine  shillings  a  week,  and  a  sack  of  barley  for  his  dog. 
At  that  time  the  shepherd  had  to  keep  his  own  dog — 
no  small  expense  to  him  when  his  wages  were  no  more 
than  six  to  eight  shillings  a  week.  But  Caleb  was  his 
father's  favourite  son,  and  the  old  man  could  not  endure 
the  thought  of  losing  sight  of  him;  and  at  last,  finding 
that  he  could  not  persuade  him  not  to  leave  the  old  home, 
he  became  angry,  and  told  him  that  if  he  went  away 
to  Warminster  for  the  sake  of  the  higher  wages  and 
barley  for  the  dog  he  would  disown  him !  This  was  a 
serious  matter  to  Caleb,  in  spite  of  the  fact  that  a  shep- 
herd has  no  money  to  leave  to  his  children  when  he  passes 
away.  He  went  nevertheless,  for,  though  he  loved  and 
reverenced  his  father,  he  had  a  young  wife  who  pulled 
the  other  way;  and  he  was  absent  for  years,  and  when 
he  returned  the  old  man's  heart  had  softened,  so  that 
he  was  glad  to  welcome  him  back  to  the  old  home. 


A    SHEPHERD    OF   THE    DOWNS     S3 


Meanwhile  at  that  humble  cottage  at  Winterbourne 
Bishop  great  things  had  happened;  old  Isaac  was  no 
longer  shepherding  on  the  downs,  but  living  very  com- 
fortably in  his  own  cottage  in  the  village.  The  change 
came  about  in  this  way. 

The  downland  shepherds,  Caleb  said,  were  as  a  rule 
clever  poachers;  and  it  is  really  not  surprising,  when 


l3^n{^-'W>  Hxfl 


^i&^ 

\^^ 


M~ 


UNLOADING    SHCEP_-^g^  ^i«  • 
AT   TttC    MARKET      '^''^^ 


one  considers  the  temptation  to  a  man  with  a  wife  and 
several  hungry  children,  besides  himself  and  a  dog,  to 
feed  out  of  about  seven  shillings  a  week.  But  old  Baw- 
combe  was  an  exception:  he  would  take  no  game,  furred 
or  feathered,  nor,  if  he  could  prevent  it,  allow  another 
to  take  anything  from  the  land  fed  by  his  flock.  Caleb 
and  his  brothers,  when  as  boys  and  youths  they  began 
their  shepherding,  sometimes  caught  a  rabbit,  or  their 
dog  caught  and  killed  one  without  their  encouragement; 


54  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

but,  however  the  thing  came  into  their  hands,  they  could 
not  take  it  home  on  account  of  their  father.  Now  it 
happened  that  an  elderly  gentleman  who  had  the  shooting 
was  a  keen  sportsman,  and  that  in  several  successive 
years  he  found  a  wonderful  difference  in  the  amount 
of  game  at  one  spot  among  the  hills  and  in  all  the  rest  of 
his  hill  property.  The  only  explanation  the  keeper  could 
give  was  that  Isaac  Bawcombe  tended  his  flock  on  that 
down  where  rabbits,  hares,  and  partridges  were  so  plenti- 
ful. One  autumn  day  the  gentleman  was  shooting  over 
that  down,  and  seeing  a  big  man  in  a  smock-frock  stand- 
ing motionless,  crook  in  hand,  regarding  him,  he  called 
out  to  his  keeper,  who  was  with  him,  "Who  is  that  big 
man?"  and  was  told  that  it  was  Shepherd  Bawcombe. 
The  old  gentleman  pulled  some  money  out  of  his  pocket, 
and  said,  "Give  him  this  half-crown,  and  thank  him  for 
the  good  sport  I've  had  to-day."  But  after  the  coin  had 
been  given  the  giver  still  remained  standing  there,  think- 
ing, perhaps,  that  he  had  not  yet  sufificiently  rewarded 
the  man;  and  at  last,  before  turning  away,  he  shouted, 
"Bawcombe,  that's  not  all.  You'll  get  something  more 
by  and  by." 

Isaac  had  not  long  to  wait  for  the  something  more, 
and  it  turned  out  not  to  be  the  hare  or  brace  of  birds  he 
had  half  expected.  It  happened  that  the  sportsman  was 
one  of  the  trustees  of  an  ancient  charity  which  provided 
for  six  of  the  most  deserving  old  men  of  the  parish  of 
Bishop;  now,  one  of  the  six  had  recently  died,  and  on 
this  gentleman's  recommendation  Bawcombe  had  been 
elected  to  fill  the  vacant  place.  The  letter  from  Salisbury 
informing  him  of  his  election  and  commanding  his  pres- 
ence in  that  city  filled  him  with  astonishment ;  for,  though 


A    SHEPHERD   OF   THE    DOWNS     55 

he  was  sixty  years  old  and  the  father  of  three  sons  now 
out  in  the  world,  he  could  not  yet  regard  himself  as  an 
old  man,  for  he  had  never  known  a  day's  illness,  nor 
an  ache,  and  was  famed  in  all  that  neighbourhood  for 
his  great  physical  strength  and  endurance.  And  now, 
with  his  own  cottage  to  live  in,  eight  shillings  a  week, 
and  his  pensioner's  garments,  with  certain  other  benefits, 
and  a  shilling  a  day  besides  which  his  old  master  paid 
him  for  some  services  at  the  farm-house  in  the  village, 
Isaac  found  himself  very  well  off  indeed,  and  he  enjoyed 
his  prosperous  state  for  twenty-six  years.  Then,  in  1886, 
his  old  wife  fell  ill  and  died,  and  no  sooner  was  she  in 
her  grave  than  he,  too,  began  to  droop ;  and  soon,  before 
the  year  was  out,  he  followed  her,  because,  as  the  neigh- 
bours said,  they  had  always  been  a  loving  pair  and  one 
could  not  'bide  without  the  other. 

This  chapter  has  already  had  its  proper  ending  and 
there  was  no  intention  of  adding  to  it,  but  now  for  a 
special  reason,  which  I  trust  the  reader  will  pardon 
when  he  hears  it,  I  must  go  on  to  say  something  about 
that  strange  phenomenon  of  death  succeeding  death  in 
old  married  couples,  one  dying  for  no  other  reason  than 
that  the  other  has  died.  For  it  is  our  instinct  to  hold 
fast  to  life,  and  the  older  a  man  gets  if  he  be  sane  the 
more  he  becomes  like  a  new-born  child  in  the  impulse 
to  grip  tightly.  A  strange  and  a  rare  thing  among  people 
generally  (the  people  we  know),  it  is  nevertheless  quite 
common  among  persons  of  the  labouring  class  in  the 
rural  districts.  I  have  sometimes  marvelled  at  the  num- 
ber of  such  cases  to  be  met  with  in  the  villages ;  but  when 
one  comes  to  think  about  it  one  ceases  to  wonder  that 


56 


A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 


it  should  be  so.  For  the  labourer  on  the  land  goes  on 
from  boyhood  to  the  end  of  life  in  the  same  everlasting 
round,  the  changes  from  task  to  task,  according  to  the 
seasons,  being  no  greater  than  in  the  case  of  the  animals 
that  alter  their  actions  and  habits  to  suit  the  varying 
conditions  of  the  year.    March  and  August  and  Decem- 


aca 


T^lE  HURDLEMAKER 


ber,  and  every  month,  w^ill  bring  about  the  changes  in 
the  atmosphere  and  earth  and  vegetation  and  in  the  ani- 
mals, which  have  been  from  of  old,  which  he  knows  how 
to  meet,  and  the  old,  familiar  task,  lambing-time,  shear- 
ing-time, root  and  seed  crops,  hoeing,  haymaking,  har- 
vesting. It  is  a  life  of  the  extremest  simplicity,  without 
all  those  interests  outside  the  home  and  the  daily  task, 
the  innumerable  distractions,  common  to  all  persons  in 


A    SHEPHERD    OF   THE    DOWNS     57 

other  classes  and  to  the  workmen  in  towns  as  well.  Inci- 
dentally it  may  be  said  that  it  is  also  the  healthiest,  that, 
speaking  generally,  the  agricultural  labourer  is  the  health- 
iest and  sanest  man  in  the  land,  if  not  also  the  happiest, 
as  some  believe. 

It  is  this  life  of  simple,  unchanging  actions  and  of 
habits  that  are  like  instincts,  of  hard  labour  in  sun  and 
wind  and  rain  from  day  to  day,  with  its  weekly  break 
and  rest,  and  of  but  few  comforts  and  no  luxuries,  which 
serves  to  bind  man  and  wife  so  closely.  And  the  longer 
their  life  goes  on  together  the  closer  and  more  unbreakable 
the  union  grows.  They  are  growing  old:  old  friends 
and  companions  have  died  or  left  them;  their  children 
have  married  and  gone  away  and  have  their  own  families 
and  affairs,  so  that  the  old  folks  at  home  are  little  remem- 
bered, and  to  all  others  they  have  become  of  little  conse- 
quence in  the  world.  But  they  do  not  know  it,  for  they 
are  together,  cherishing  the  same  memories,  speaking 
of  the  same  old,  familiar  things,  and  their  lost  friends 
and  companions,  their  absent,  perhaps  estranged  children, 
are  with  them  still  in  mind  as  in  the  old  days.  The  past 
is  with  them  more  than  the  present,  to  give  an  undying 
interest  to  life;  for  they  share  it,  and  it  is  only  when 
one  goes,  when  the  old  wife  gets  the  tea  ready  and  goes 
mechanically  to  the  door  to  gaze  out,  knowing  that  her 
tired  man  will  come  in  no  more  to  take  his  customary 
place  and  listen  to  all  the  things  she  has  stored  up  In 
her  mind  during  the  day  to  tell  him ;  and  when  the  tired 
labourer  comes  in  at  dusk  to  find  no  old  wife  waiting  to 
give  him  his  tea  and  talk  to  him  while  he  refreshes 
himself,  he  all  at  once  realizes  his  position;  he  finds  him- 
self cut  off  from  the  entire  world,  from  all  of  his  kind. 


58  A   SHEPHERD'S   LIFE 

Where  are  they  all  ?  The  enduring  sympathy  of  that  one 
soul  that  was  with  him  till  now  had  kept  him  in  touch 
with  life,  had  made  it  seem  unchanged  and  unchangeable, 
and  with  that  soul  has  vanished  the  old,  sweet  illusion 
as  well  as  all  ties,  all  common,  human  affection.  He  is 
desolate,  indeed,  alone  in  a  desert  world,  and  it  is  not 
strange  that  in  many  and  many  a  case,  even  in  that  of 
a  man  still  strong,  untouched  by  disease  and  good  for 
another  decade  or  two,  the  loss,  the  awful  solitude,  has 
proved  too  much  for  him. 

Such  cases,  I  have  said,  are  common,  but  they  are 
not  recorded,  though  it  is  possible  with  labour  to  pick 
them  out  in  the  church  registers ;  but  in  the  churchyards 
you  do  not  find  them,  since  the  farm-labourer  has  only 
a  green  mound  to  mark  the  spot  where  he  lies.  Never- 
theless, he  is  sometimes  honoured  with  a  gravestone,  and 
last  August  I  came  by  chance  on  one  on  which  was 
recorded  a  case  like  that  of  Isaac  Bawcombe  and  his 
life-mate. 

The  churchyard  is  in  one  of  the  prettiest  and  most 
secluded  villages  in  the  downland  country  described  in 
this  book.  The  church  is  ancient  and  beautiful  and  inter- 
esting in  many  ways,  and  the  churchyard,  too,  is  one  of 
the  most  interesting  I  know,  a  beautiful  green,  tree- 
shaded  spot,  with  an  extraordinary  number  of  tombs  and 
gravestones,  many  of  them  dated  in  the  eighteenth  and 
seventeenth  centuries,  inscribed  with  names  of  families 
which  have  long  died  out. 

I  went  on  that  afternoon  to  pass  an  hour  in  the  church- 
yard, and  finding  an  old  man  in  labourer's  clothes  resting 
on  a  tomb,  I  sat  down  and  entered  into  conversation  with 
him.     He  was  seventy-nine,  he  told  me,  and  past  work, 


A    SHEPHERD   OF   THE    DOWNS     59 

and  he  had  three  shillings  a  week  from  the  parish;  but 
he  was  very  deaf  and  it  fatigued  me  to  talk  to  him,  and 
seeing  the  church  open  I  went  in.  On  previous  visits 
I  had  had  a  good  deal  of  trouble  to  get  the  key,  and  to 
find  it  open  now  was  a  pleasant  surprise.  An  old  woman 
was  there  dusting  the  seats,  and  by  and  by,  while  I  was 
talking  with  her,  the  old  labourer  came  stumping  in  with 
his  ponderous,  iron-shod  boots  and  without  taking  off  his 
old,  rusty  hat,  and  began  shouting  at  the  church-cleaner 
about  a  pair  of  trousers  he  had  given  her  to  mend,  which 
he  wanted  badly.  Leaving  them  to  their  arguing  I  went 
out  and  began  studying  the  inscriptions  on  the  stones, 
so  hard  to  make  out  in  some  instances ;  the  old  man  fol- 
lowed and  went  his  way;  then  the  church-cleaner  came 
out  to  where  I  was  standing.  "A  tiresome  old  man!" 
she  said.  "He's  that  deaf  he  has  to  shout  to  hear  himself 
speak,  then  you've  got  to  shout  back — and  all  about  his 
old  trousers!" 

"I  suppose  he  wants  them,"  I  returned,  "and  you 
promised  to  do  them,  so  he  has  some  reason  for  going 
at  you  about  it." 

"Oh,  no,  he  hasn't,"  she  replied.  "The  girl  brought 
them  for  me  to  mend,  and  I  said,  'Leave  them  and  I'll 
do  them  when  I've  time' — how  did  I  know  he  wanted 
them  in  a  hurry?    A  troublesome  old  man!" 

By  and  by,  taking  a  pair  of  spectacles  out  of  her  pocket, 
she  put  them  on,  and  going  down  on  her  knees  she  began 
industriously  picking  the  old,  brown,  dead  moss  out  of  the 
lettering  on  one  side  of  the  tomb.  "I'd  like  to  know 
what  It  says  on  this  stone,"  she  said. 

"Well,  you  can  read  it  for  yourself,  now  youVe  got 
your  glasses  on." 


60  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

"I  can't  read.  You  see,  I'm  old — seventy-six  years, 
and  when  I  were  little  we  were  very  poor  and  I  couldn't 
get  no  schooling.  I've  got  these  glasses  to  do  my  sewing, 
and  only  put  them  on  to  get  this  stuff  out  so's  you  could 
read  it.     I'd  like  to  hear  you  read  it." 

I  began  to  get  interested  in  the  old  dame  who  talked 
to  me  so  freely.  She  was  small  and  weak-looking,  and 
appeared  very  thin  in  her  limp,  old,  faded  gown;  she 
had  a  meek,  patient  expression  on  her  face,  and  her 
voice,  too,  like  her  face,  expressed  weariness  and  resigna- 
tion. 

"But  if  you  have  always  lived  here  you  must  know 
what  is  said  on  this  stone?" 

"No,  I  don't ;  nobody  never  read  It  to  me,  and  I  couldn't 
read  it  because  I  wasn't  taught  to  read.  But  I'd  like  to 
hear  you  read  it." 

It  was  a  long  inscription  to  a  person  named  Ash, 
gentleman,  of  this  parish,  who  departed  this  life  over 
a  century  ago,  and  was  a  man  of  a  noble  and  generous 
disposition,  good  as  a  husband,  a  father,  a  friend,  and 
charitable  to  the  poor.  Under  all  were  some  lines  of 
verse,  scarcely  legible  in  spite  of  the  trouble  she  had 
taken  to  remove  the  old  moss  from  the  letters. 

She  listened  with  profound  interest,  then  said,  "I  never 
heard  all  that  before;  I  didn't  know  the  name,  though 
I've  known  this  stone  since  I  was  a  child.  I  used  to 
climb  on  to  it  then.    Can  you  read  me  another?" 

I  read  her  another  and  several  more,  then  came  to 
one  which  she  said  she  knew — every  word  of  it,  for  this 
was  the  grave  of  the  sweetest,  kindest  woman  that  ever 
lived.  Oh,  how  good  this  dear  woman  had  been  to  her 
in  her  young  married  life  more'n  fifty  years  ago!     If 


A    SHEPHERD    OF   THE    DOWNS     61 

that  dear  lady  had  only  lived  it  would  not  have  been  so 
hard  for  her  when  her  trouble  come ! 

"And  what  was  your  trouble?" 

"It  was  the  loss  of  my  poor  man.  He  was  such  a 
good  man,  a  thatcher;  and  he  fell  from  a  rick  and  injured 
his  spine,  and  he  died,  poor  fellow,  and  left  me  with  our 
five  little  children."  Then,  having  told  me  her  own 
tragedy,  to  my  surprise  she  brightened  up  and  begged 
me  to  read  other  inscriptions  to  her. 

I  went  on  reading,  and  presently  she  said,  "No,  that's 
wrong.  There  wasn't  ever  a  Lampard  in  this  parish. 
That  I  know." 

"You  don't  know!  There  certainly  was  a  Lampard 
or  it  would  not  be  stated  here,  cut  in  deep  letters  on 
this  stone." 

"No,  there  wasn't  a  Lampard.  I've  never  known  such 
a  name  and  I've  lived  here  all  my  life." 

"But  there  were  people  living  here  before  you  came 
on  the  scene.  He  died  a  long  time  ago,  this  Lampard — 
in  1714,  it  says.  And  you  are  only  seventy-six,  you  tell 
me;  that  is  to  say,  you  were  born  in  1835,  and  that  would 
be  one  hundred  and  twenty-one  years  after  he  died." 

"That's  a  long  time !  It  must  be  very  old,  this  stone. 
And  the  church  too.  I've  heard  say  it  was  once  a  Roman 
Catholic  church.     Is  that  true?" 

"Why,  of  course,  it's  true — all  the  old  churches  were, 
and  we  were  all  of  that  faith  until  a  King  of  England 
had  a  quarrel  with  the  Pope  and  determined  he  would 
be  Pope  himself  as  well  as  king  in  his  own  country.  So 
he  turned  all  the  priests  and  monks  out,  and  took  their 
property  and  churches  and  had  his  own  men  put  in.  That 
was  Henry  VIII." 


62  'A   SHEPHERD'S   LIFE 

"I've  heard  something  about  that  king  and  his  wives. 
But  about  Lampard,  it  do  seem  strange  I've  never  heard 
that  name  before." 

"Not  strange  at  all;  it  was  a  common  name  in  this 
part  of  Wiltshire  in  former  days;  you  find  it  in  dozens 
of  churchyards,  but  you'll  find  very  few  Lampards  living 
in  the  villages.  Why,  I  could  tell  you  a  dozen  or  twenty 
surnames,  some  queer,  funny  names,  that  were  common 
in  these  parts  not  more  than  a  century  ago  which  seem 
to  have  quite  died  out." 

"I  should  like  to  hear  some  of  them  if  you'll  tell  me." 

"Let  me  think  a  moment:  there  was  Thorr,  Pizzie, 
Gee,  Every,  Pottle,  Kiddle,  Toomer,  Shergold,  and " 

Here  she  interrupted  to  say  that  she  knew  three  of 
the  names  I  had  mentioned.  Then,  pointing  to  a  small, 
upright  gravestone  about  twenty  feet  away,  she  added, 
"And  there's  one." 

"Very  well,"  I  said,  "but  don't  keep  putting  me  out — 
I've  got  more  names  in  my  mind  to  tell  you.  Maid- 
ment,  Marchmont,  Velvin,  Burpitt,  Winzur,  Rideout, 
Cullurne." 

Of  these  she  only  knew  one — Rideout. 

Then  I  went  over  to  the  stone  she  had  pointed  to  and 
read  the  inscription  to  John  Toomer  and  his  wife  Re- 
becca. She  died  first,  in  March,  1877,  aged  72;  he  in 
July  the  same  year,  aged  75. 

"You  knew  them,  I  suppose?" 

"Yes,  they  belonged  here,  both  of  them." 

"Tell  me  about  them." 

"There's  nothing  to  tell:  he  was  only  a  labourer  and 
worked  on  the  same  farm  all  his  life." 

'Who  put  a  stone  over  them — their  children?" 


<n 


A    SHEPHERD   OF   THE    DOWNS     63 

"No,  they're  all  poor  and  live  away.  I  think  it  was 
a  lady  who  lived  here;  she'd  been  good  to  them,  and 
she  came  and  stood  here  when  they  put  old  John  in  the 
ground." 

"But  I  want  to  hear  more." 

"There's  no  more,  I've  said;  he  was  a  labourer,  and 
after  she  died  he  died." 

"Yes?  go  on." 

"How  can  I  go  on?  There's  no  more.  I  knew  them 
so  well;  they  lived  in  the  little,  thatched  cottage  over 
there,  where  the  Millards  live  now." 

"Did  they  fall  ill  at  the  same  time?" 

"Oh,  no,  he  was  as  well  as  could  be,  still  at  work,  till 
she  died,  then  he  went  on  in  a  strange  way.  He  would 
come  in  of  an  evening  and  call  his  wife.  'Mother! 
Mother,  where  are  you?'  you'd  hear  him  call,  'Mother, 
be  you  upstairs?  Mother,  ain't  you  coming  down  for  a 
bit  of  bread  and  cheese  before  you  go  to  bed?'  And 
then  in  a  little  while  he  just  died." 

"And  you  said  there  was  nothing  to  tell!" 

"No,  there  w^asn't  anything.  He  was  just  one  of  us, 
a  labourer  on  the  farm." 

I  then  gave  her  something,  and  to  my  surprise  after 
taking  it  she  made  me  an  elaborate  curtsy.  It  rather 
upset  me,  for  I  had  thought  we  had  got  on  very  well 
together  and  were  quite  free  and  easy  In  our  talk,  very 
much  on  a  level.  But  she  was  not  done  with  me  yet. 
She  followed  to  the  gate,  and  holding  out  her  open  hand 
with  that  small  gift  in  it,  she  said  in  a  pathetic  voice,  "Did 
you  think,  sir,  I  was  expecting  this?  I  had  no  such 
thought  and  didn't  want  it." 

And  I  had  no  thought  of  saying  or  writing  a  word 


64  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

about  her.  But  since  that  day  she  has  haunted  me — 
she  and  her  old  John  Toomer,  and  it  has  just  now 
occurred  to  me  that  by  putting  her  in  my  book  I  may 
be  able  to  get  her  out  of  my  mind. 


CHAPTER   V 
Early  Memories 

A  child  shepherd — Isaac  and  his  children — Shepherding 
in  boyhood  —  Two  notable  sheep-dogs  —  Jack,  the 
adder-killer — Sitting  on  an  adder — Rough  and  the 
drovers — The  Salisbury  coach — A  sheep-dog  suck- 
ling a  lamb 

Caleb's  shepherding  began  in  childhood;  at  all  events 
he  had  had  his  first  experience  of  it  at  that  time.  Many 
an  old  shepherd,  whose  father  was  sliepherd  before  him, 
has  told  me  that  he  began  to  go  with  the  flock  very  early 
in  life,  when  he  was  no  more  than  ten  to  twelve  years 
of  age.  Caleb  remembered  being  put  in  charge  of  his 
father's  flock  at  the  tender  age  of  six.  It  was  a  new  and 
wonderful  experience,   and  made  so  vivid  and  lasting 

65 


66  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

an  impression  on  his  mind  that  now,  when  he  is  past 
eighty,  he  speaks  of  it  very  feeHngly  as  of  something 
which  happened  yesterday. 

It  was  harvesting  time,  and  Isaac,  who  was  a  good 
reaper,  was  wanted  in  the  field,  but  he  could  find  no 
one,  not  even  a  boy,  to  take  charge  of  his  flock  in  the 
meantime,  and  so  to  be  able  to  reap  and  keep  an  eye  on 
the  flock  at  the  same  time  he  brought  his  sheep  down 
to  the  part  of  the  down  adjoining  the  field.  It  was  on 
his  "liberty,"  or  that  part  of  the  down  where  he  was 
entitled  to  have  his  flock.  He  then  took  his  very  small 
boy,  Caleb,  and  placing  him  with  the  sheep  told  him  they 
were  now  in  his  charge;  that  he  was  not  to  lose  sight  of 
them,  and  at  the  same  time  not  to  run  about  among  the 
furze-bushes  for  fear  of  treading  on  an  adder.  By  and 
by  the  sheep  began  straying  off  among  the  furze-bushes, 
and  no  sooner  would  they  disappear  from  sight  than  he 
imagined  they  were  lost  for  ever,  or  would  be  unless 
he  quickly  found  them,  and  to  find  them  he  had  to  run 
about  among  the  bushes  with  the  terror  of  adders  in 
his  mind,  and  the  two  troubles  together  kept  him  crying 
with  misery  all  the  time.  Then,  at  intervals,  Isaac  would 
leave  his  reaping  and  come  to  see  how  he  was  getting 
on,  and  the  tears  would  vanish  from  his  eyes,  and  he 
would  feel  very  brave  again,  and  to  his  father's  question 
he  would  reply  that  he  was  getting  on  very  well. 

Finally  his  father  came  and  took  him  to  the  field,  to 
his  great  relief;  but  he  did  not  carry  him  in  his  arms; 
he  strode  along  at  his  usual  pace  and  let  the  little  fellow 
run  after  him,  stumbling  and  falling  and  picking  himself 
up  again  and  running  on.  And  by  and  by  one  of  the 
women  in  the  field  cried  out,  "Be  you  not  ashamed,  Isaac, 


EARLY   MEMORIES  67 

to  go  that  pace  and  not  bide  for  the  little  child!  I  do 
b'lieve  he's  no  more'n  seven  year — poor  mite!" 

"No  more'n  six,"  answered  Isaac  proudly,  with  a  laugh. 

But  though  not  soft  or  tender  with  his  children  he 
was  very  fond  of  them,  and  when  he  came  home  early 
in  the  evening  he  would  get  them  round  him  and  talk 
to  them,  and  sing  old  songs  and  ballads  he  had  learnt  in 
his  young  years — "Down  in  the  Village,"  "The  Days  of 
Queen  Elizabeth,"  "The  Blacksmith,"  "The  Gown  of 
Green,"  "The  Dawning  of  the  Day,"  and  many  others, 
which  Caleb  in  the  end  got  by  heart  and  used  to  sing, 
too,  when  he  was  grown  up. 

Caleb  was  about  nine  when  he  began  to  help  regularly 
with  the  flock;  that  was  in  the  summertime,  when  the 
flock  was  put  every  day  on  the  down  and  when  Isaac's 
services  were  required  for  the  hay-making  and  later  for 
harvesting  and  other  work.  His  best  memories  of  this 
period  relate  to  his  mother  and  to  two  sheep-dogs.  Jack 
at  first  and  afterwards  Rough,  both  animals  of  original 
character.  Jack  was  a  great  favourite  of  his  master, 
who  considered  him  a  "tarrable  good  dog."  He  was 
rather  short-haired,  like  the  old  Welsh  sheep-dog  once 
common  in  Wiltshire,  but  entirely  black  instead  of  the 
usual  colour — blue  with  a  sprinkling  of  black  spots.  This 
dog  had  an  intense  hatred  of  adders  and  never  failed  to 
kill  every  one  he  discovered.  At  the  same  time  he  knew 
that  they  were  dangerous  enemies  to  tackle,  and  on  catch- 
ing sight  of  one  his  hair  would  instantly  bristle  up,  and 
he  would  stand  as  if  paralysed  for  some  moments,  glaring 
at  it  and  gnashing  his  teeth,  then  springing  like  a  cat 
upon  it  he  would  seize  it  in  his  mouth,  only  to  hurl  it 
from  him  to  a  distance.     This  action  he  would  repeat 


68  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

until  the  adder  was  dead,  and  Isaac  would  then  put  it 
under  a  furze-bush  to  take  it  home  and  hang  it  on  a 
certain  gate.  The  farmer,  too,  hke  the  dog,  hated  adders, 
and  paid  his  shepherd  sixpence  for  every  one  his  dog 
killed. 

One  day  Caleb,  with  one  of  his  brothers,  was  out  with 
the  flock,  amusing  themselves  in  their  usual  way  on 
the  turf  with  nine  morris-men  and  the  shepherd's  puzzle, 
when  all  at  once  their  mother  appeared  unexpectedly  on 
the  scene.  It  was  her  custom,  when  the  boys  were  sent 
out  with  the  flock,  to  make  expeditions  to  the  down  just 
to  see  what  they  were  up  to;  and  hiding  her  approach 
by  keeping  to  a  hedge-side  or  by  means  of  the  furze- 
bushes,  she  would  sometimes  come  upon  them  with  dis- 
concerting suddenness.  On  this  occasion  just  where  the 
boys  had  been  playing  there  was  a  low,  stout  furze-bush, 
so  dense  and  flat-topped  that  one  could  use  it  as  a  seat, 
and  his  mother  taking  off  and  folding  her  shawl  placed 
it  on  the  bush,  and  sat  down  on  it  to  rest  herself  after 
her  long  walk.  "I  can  see  her  now,"  said  Caleb,  "sitting 
on  that  furze-bush,  in  her  smock  and  leggings,  with  a 
big  hat  like  a  man's  on  her  head — for  that's  how  she 
dressed."  But  in  a  few  moments  she  jumped  up,  crying 
out  that  she  felt  a  snake  under  her,  and  snatched  off  the 
shawl,  and  there,  sure  enough,  out  of  the  middle  of  the 
flat  bush-top  appeared  the  head  of  an  adder,  flicking 
out  its  tongue.  The  dog,  too,  saw  it,  dashed  at  the 
bush,  forcing  his  muzzle  and  head  into  the  middle  of  it, 
seized  the  serpent  by  its  body  and  plucked  it  out  and 
threw  it  from  him,  only  to  follow  it  up  and  kill  it  in  the 
usual  way. 

Rough  was  a  large,  shaggy,  grey-blue  bobtail  bitch 


EARLY   MEMORIES 


69 


with  a  white  collar.  She  was  a  clever,  good  all-round 
dog,  but  had  originally  been  trained  for  the  road,  and 
one  of  the  shepherd's  stories  about  her  relates  to  her 
intelligence  in  her  own  special  line — the  driving  of  sheep. 
One  day  he  and  his  smaller  brother  were  in  charge 
of  the  flock  on  the  down,  and  were  on  the  side  where  it 
dips  down  to  the  turnpike-road  about  a  mile  and  a  half 


^?#^ 


SHEPHERD  AKD  FLOCK 


from  the  village,  when  a  large  flock,  driven  by  two  men 
and  two  dogs,  came  by.  They  were  going  to  the  Britford 
sheep-fair  and  were  behind  time;  Isaac  had  started  at 
daylight  that  morning  with  sheep  for  the  same  fair,  and 
that  was  the  reason  of  the  boys  being  with  the  flock. 
As  the  flock  on  the  down  was  feeding  quietly  the  boys 
determined  to  go  to  the  road  to  watch  the  sheep  and  men 
pass,  and  arriving  at  the  roadside  they  saw  that  the  dogs 
were  too  tired  to  work  and  the  men  were  getting  on 
with  great  difficulty.     One  of  them,  looking  intently  at 


70  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

Rough,  asked  if  she  would  work.  "Oh,  yes,  she'll  work," 
said  the  boy  proudly,  and  calling  Rough  he  pointed  to 
the  flock  moving  very  slowly  along  the  road  and  over 
the  turf  on  either  side  of  it.  Rough  knew  what  was 
wanted;  she  had  been  looking  on  and  had  taken  the 
situation  in  with  her  professional  eye;  away  she  dashed, 
and  running  up  and  down,  first  on  one  side  then  on  the 
other,  quickly  put  the  whole  flock,  numbering  800  into 
the  road  and  gave  them  a  good  start. 

"Why,  she  be  a  road  dog!"  exclaimed  the  drover  de- 
lightedly. "She's  better  for  me  on  the  road  than  for 
you  on  the  down;  I'll  buy  her  of  you." 

"No,  I  mustn't  sell  her,"  said  Caleb. 

"Look  here,  boy,"  said  the  other,  "I'll  give  'ee  a 
sovran  and  this  young  dog,  an'  he'll  be  a  good  one  with 
a  little  more  training." 

"No,  I  mustn't,"  said  Caleb,  distressed  at  the  other's 
persistence. 

"Well,  will  you  come  a  little  way  on  the  road  with 
us?"  asked  the  drover. 

This  the  boys  agreed  to  and  went  on  for  about  a  quar- 
ter of  a  mile,  when  all  at  once  the  Salisbury  coach 
appeared  on  the  road,  coming  to  meet  them.  This  new 
trouble  was  pointed  out  to  Rough,  and  at  once  when 
her  little  master  had  given  the  order  she  dashed  barking 
into  the  midst  of  the  mass  of  sheep  and  drove  them 
furiously  to  the  side  from  end  to  end  of  the  extended 
flock,  making  a  clear  passage  for  the  coach,  which  was 
not  delayed  a  minute.  And  no  sooner  was  the  coach  gone 
than  the  sheep  were  put  back  into  the  road. 

Then  the  drover  pulled  out  his  sovereign  once  more 
and  tried  to  make  the  boy  take  It. 


EARLY   MEMORIES  71 

"I  mustn't,"  he  repeated,  almost  in  tears.  "What 
would  father  say?" 

"Say!  He  won't  say  nothing.  He'll  think  you've 
done  well." 

But  Caleb  thought  that  perhaps  his  father  would  say 
something,  and  when  he  remembered  certain  whippings 
he  had  experienced  in  the  past  he  had  an  uncomfortable 
sensation  about  his  back.  "No,  I  mustn't,"  was  all  he 
could  say,  and  then  the  drovers  with  a  laugh  went  on 
with  their  sheep. 

When  Isaac  came  home  and  the  adventure  was  told 
to  him  he  laughed  and  said  that  he  meant  to  sell  Rough 
some  day.  He  used  to  say  this  occasionally  to  tease  his 
wife  because  of  the  dog's  intense  devotion  to  her;  and 
she,  being  without  a  sense  of  humour  and  half  thinking 
that  he  meant  it,  would  get  up  out  of  her  seat  and  sol- 
emnly declare  that  if  he  ever  sold  Rough  she  would  never 
again  go  oat  to  the  down  to  see  what  the  boys  were 
up  to. 

One  day  she  visited  the  boys  when  they  had  the  flock 
near  the  turnpike,  and  seating  herself  on  the  turf  a  few 
yards  from  the  road  got  out  her  work  and  began  sewing. 
Presently  they  spied  a  big,  singular-looking  man  coming 
at  a  swinging  pace  along  the  road.  He  was  in  shirt- 
sleeves, barefooted,  and  wore  a  straw  hat  without  a  rim. 
Rough  eyed  the  strange  being's  approach  with  suspicion, 
and  going  to  her  mistress  placed  herself  at  her  side.  The 
man  came  up  and  sat  down  at  a  distance  of  three  or  four 
yards  from  the  group,  and  Rough,  looking  dangerous, 
started  up  and  put  her  forepaws  on  her  mistress's  lap 
and  began  uttering  a  low  growl. 

"Will  that  dog  bite,  missus?"  said  the  man. 


IZ  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

"Maybe  he  will,"  said  she.  "I  won't  answer  for  he 
if  you  come  any  nearer." 

The  two  boys  had  been  occupied  cutting  a  faggot  from 
a  furze-bush  with  a  bill-hook,  and  now  held  a  whispered 
consultation  as  to  what  they  would  do  if  the  man  tried 
to  "hurt  mother,"  and  agreed  that  as  soon  as  Rough 
had  got  her  teeth  in  his  leg  they  would  attack  him  about 
the  head  with  the  bill-hook.  They  were  not  required  to 
go  into  action;  the  stranger  could  not  long  endure 
Rough's  savage  aspect,  and  very  soon  he  got  up  and 
resumed  his  travels. 

The  shepherd  remembered  another  curious  incident  in 
Rough's  career.  At  one  time  when  she  had  a  litter  of 
pups  at  home  she  was  yet  compelled  to  be  a  great  part 
of  the  day  with  the  flock  of  ewes  as  they  could  not  do 
without  her.  The  boys  just  then  were  bringing  up  a 
motherless  lamb  by  hand  and  they  would  put  it  with  the 
sheep,  and  to  feed  it  during  the  day  were  obliged  to  catch 
a  ewe  with  milk.  The  lamb  trotted  at  Caleb's  heels  like 
a  dog,  and  one  day  when  it  was  hungry  and  crying  to 
be  fed,  when  Rough  happened  to  be  sitting  on  her 
haunches  close  by,  it  occurred  to  him  that  Rough's  milk 
might  serve  as  well  as  a  sheep's.  The  lamb  was  put  to 
her  and  took  very  kindly  to  its  canine  foster-mother, 
wriggling  its  tail  and  pushing  vigorously  with  its  nose. 
Rough  submitted  patiently  to  the  trial,  and  the  result  was 
that  the  lamb  adopted  the  sheep-dog  as  its  mother  and 
sucked  her  milk  several  times  every  day,  to  the  great 
admiration  of  all  who  witnessed  it. 


'A^'^ 


.^ 


■^5^ 


SAHfOKB'   S'  flAS^TOi      •••  TKC    MASDCR. 


CHAPTER   VI 
Shepherd  Isaac  Bawcombe 

A  noble  shepherd — A  fighting  village  blacksmith — Old 
Joe  the  collier — A  story  of  his  strength — Donkeys 
poisoned  by  yew — The  shepherd  without  his  sheep 
— How  the  shepherd  killed  a  deer 

To  me  the  most  interesting  of  Caleb's  old  memories  were 
those  relating  to  his  father,  partly  on  account  of  the 
man's  fine  character,  and  partly  because  they  went  so 
far  back,  beginning  in  the  early  years  of  the  last  century. 
Altogether  he  must  have  been  a  very  fine  specimen  of 
a  man,  both  physically  and  morally.  In  Caleb's  mind 
he  was  undoubtedly  the  first  among  men  morally,  but 
there  were  two  other  men  supposed  to  be  his  equals  in 
bodily  strength,  one  a  native  of  the  village,  the  other  a 
periodical  visitor.  The  first  was  Jarvis  the  blacksmith, 
a  man  of  an  immense  chest  and  big  arms,  one  of  Isaac's 
greatest  friends,  and  very  good-tempered  except  when 

73 


74  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

in  his  cups,  for  he  did  occasionally  get  drunk  and  then 
he  quarrelled  with  anyone  and  everyone. 

One  afternoon  he  had  made  himself  quite  tipsy  at 
the  inn,  and  when  going  home,  swaying  about  and 
walking  all  over  that  road,  he  all  at  once  caught  sight  of 
the  big  shepherd  coming  soberly  on  behind.  No  sooner 
did  he  see  him  than  it  occurred  to  his  wild  and  muddled 
mind  that  he  had  a  quarrel  with  this  very  man.  Shepherd 
Isaac,  a  quarrel  of  so  pressing  a  nature  that  there  was 
nothing  to  do  but  to  fight  it  out  there  and  then.  He 
planted  himself  before  the  shepherd  and  challenged  him 
to  fight.    Isaac  smiled  and  said  nothing. 

"I'll  fight  thee  about  this,"  he  repeated,  and  began 
tugging  at  his  coat,  and  after  getting  it  off  again  made 
up  to  Isaac,  who  still  smiled  and  said  no  word.  Then 
he  pulled  his  waistcoat  off,  and  finally  his  shirt,  and  with 
nothing  but  his  boots  and  breeches  on  once  more  squared 
up  to  Isaac  and  threw  himself  into  his  best  fighting  atti- 
tude. 

"I  doan't  want  to  fight  thee,"  said  Isaac  at  length,  "but 
I  be  thinking  'twould  be  best  to  take  thee  home."  And 
suddenly  dashing  in  he  seized  Jarvis  round  the  waist 
with  one  arm,  grasped  him  around  the  legs  with  the 
other,  and  flung  the  big  man  across  his  shoulder,  and 
carried  him  off,  struggling  and  shouting,  to  his  cottage. 
There  at  the  door,  pale  and  distressed,  stood  the  poor 
wife  waiting  for  her  lord,  when  Isaac  arrived,  and  going 
straight  in  dropped  the  smith  down  on  his  own  floor, 
and  with  the  remark,  "Here  be  your  man,"  walked  off  to 
his  cottage  and  his  tea. 

The  other  powerful  man  was  Old  Joe  the  collier,  who 
flourished  and  was  known  In  every  village  in  the  Salis- 


SHEPHERD    ISAAC    BAWCOMBE    75 


bury  Plain  district  during  the  first  thirty-five  years  of 
the  last  century.  I  first  heard  of  this  once  famous  man 
from  Caleb,  whose  boyish  imagination  had  been  affected 
by  his  gigantic  figure,  mighty  voice,  and  his  wandering 
life  over  all  that  wide  world  of  Salisbury  Plain.  After- 
wards when  I  became  acquainted  with  a  good  many  old 
men,  aged  from  75  to  90  and  upwards,  I  found  that  Old 
Joe's  memory  is  still  green  in  a  good  many  villages  of  the 


district,  from  the  upper  waters  of  the  Avon  to  the  borders 
of  Dorset,  But  it  is  only  these  ancients  who  knew  him 
that  keep  it  green;  by  and  by  when  they  are  gone  Old 
Joe  and  his  ncddies  will  be  remembered  no  more. 

In  those  days — down  to  about  1840 — it  was  customary 
to  burn  peat  in  the  cottages,  the  first  cost  of  which  was 
about  four  and  sixpence  the  wagon-load — as  much  as  I 
should  require  to  keep  me  warm  for  a  month  in  winter ; 
but  the  cost  of  its  conveyance  to  the  villages  of  the  Plain 
was  about  five  to  six  shillings  per  load,  as  it  came  from 
a  considerable  distance,  mostly  from  the  New  Forest. 
How  the  labourers  at  that  time,  when  they  were  paid 


76  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

seven  or  eight  shillings  a  week,  could  afford  to  buy  fuel 
at  such  prices  to  bake  their  rye  bread  and  to  keep  the 
frost  out  of  their  bones  is  a  marvel  to  us.  Isaac  was  a 
good  deal  better  off  than  most  of  the  villagers  in  this 
respect,  as  his  master — for  he  never  had  but  one — allowed 
him  the  use  of  a  wagon  and  the  driver's  services  for  the 
conveyance  of  one  load  of  peat  each  year.  The  wagon- 
load  of  peat  and  another  of  faggots  lasted  him  the  year 
with  the  furze  obtained  from  his  "liberty"  on  the  down. 
Coal  at  that  time  was  only  used  by  the  blacksmiths  in  the 
villages,  and  was  conveyed  in  sacks  on  ponies  or  donkeys, 
and  of  those  who  were  engaged  in  this  business  the  best 
known  was  Old  Joe.  He  appeared  periodically  in  the 
villages  with  his  eight  donkeys,  or  neddies  as  he  called 
them,  with  jingling  bells  on  their  headstalls  and  their 
burdens  of  two  sacks  of  small  coal  on  each.  In  stature 
he  was  a  giant  of  about  six  feet  three,  very  broad-chested, 
and  invariably  wore  a  broad-brimmed  hat,  a  slate-coloured 
smock-frock,  and  blue  worsted  stockings  to  his  knees. 
He  walked  behind  the  donkeys,  a  very  long  staff  in  his 
hand,  shouting  at  them  from  time  to  time,  and  occasionally 
swinging  his  long  staff  and  bringing  it  down  on  the  back 
of  a  donkey  who  was  not  keeping  up  the  pace.  In  this 
way  he  wandered  from  village  to  village  from  end  to 
end  of  the  Plain,  getting  rid  of  his  small  coal  and  load- 
ing his  animals  with  scrap  iron  which  the  blacksmiths 
would  keep  for  him,  and  as  he  continued  his  rounds  for 
nearly  forty  years  he  was  a  familiar  figure  to  every 
inhabitant  throughout  the  district. 

There  are  some  stories  still  told  of  his  great  strength, 
one  of  which  is  worth  giving.  He  was  a  man  of  iron  con- 
stitution and  gave  himself  a  hard  life,  and  he  was  hard 


SHEPHERD    ISAAC    BAWCOMBE    11 

on  his  neddles,  but  he  had  to  feed  them  well,  and  this 
he  often  contrived  to  do  at  some  one  else's  expense.  One 
night  at  a  village  on  the  Wylye  it  was  discovered  that  he 
had  put  his  eight  donkeys  in  a  meadow  in  which  the  grass 
was  just  ripe  for  mowing.  The  enraged  farmer  took 
them  to  the  village  pound  and  locked  them  up,  but  in  the 
morning  the  donkeys  and  Joe  with  them  had  vanished 
and  the  whole  village  wondered  how  he  had  done  it.  The 
stone  wall  of  the  pound  was  four  feet  and  a  half  high 
and  the  iron  gate  was  locked,  yet  he  had  lifted  the  don- 
keys up  and  put  them  over  and  had  loaded  them  and  gone 
before  anyone  was  up. 

Once  Joe  met  with  a  very  great  misfortune.  He 
arrived  late  at  a  village,  and  finding  there  was  good  feed 
in  the  churchyard  and  that  everybody  was  in  bed,  he  put 
his  donkeys  in  and  stretched  himself  out  among  the  grave- 
stones to  sleep.  He  had  no  nerves  and  no  imagination ; 
and  was  tired,  and  slept  very  soundly  until  it  was  light 
and  time  to  put  his  neddies  out  before  any  person  came 
by  and  discovered  that  he  had  been  making  free  with  the 
rector's  grass.  Glancing  round  he  could  see  no  donkeys, 
and  only  when  he  stood  up  he  found  they  had  not  made 
their  escape  but  were  there  all  about  him,  lying  among 
the  gravestones,  stone  dead  every  one!  He  had  for- 
gotten that  a  churchyard  was  a  dangerous  place  to  put 
hungry  animals  in.  They  had  browsed  on  the  luxuriant 
yew  that  grew  there,  and  this  was  the  result. 

In  time  he  recovered  from  his  loss  and  replaced  his 
dead  neddies  with  others,  and  continued  for  many  years 
longer  on  his  rounds. 

To  return  to  Isaac  Bawcombe.  He  was  born,  we  have 
seen,  in  1800,  and  began  following  a  flock  as  a  boy  and 


78  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

continued  as  shepherd  on  the  same  farm  for  a  period 
of  fifty-five  years.  The  care  of  sheep  was  the  one  all- 
absorbing  occupation  of  his  life,  and  how  much  it  was  to 
him  appears  in  this  anecdote  of  his  state  of  mind  when 
he  was  deprived  of  it  for  a  time.  The  flock  was  sold  and 
Isaac  was  left  without  sheep,  and  with  little  to  do  except 
to  wait  from  Michaelmas  to  Candlemas,  when  there  would 
be  sheep  again  at  the  farm.  It  was  a  long  time  to  Isaac, 
and  he  found  his  enforced  holiday  so  tedious  that  he 
made  himself  a  nuisance  to  his  wife  in  the  house.  Forty 
times  a  day  he  would  throw  off  his  hat  and  sit  down, 
resolved  to  be  happy  at  his  own  fireside,  but  after  a  few 
minutes  the  desire  to  be  up  and  doing  would  return,  and 
up  he  would  get  and  out  he  would  go  again.  One  dark 
cloudy  evening  a  man  from  the  farm  put  his  head  in  at 
the  door.  "Isaac,"  he  said,  "There  be  sheep  for  'ee  up 
't  the  farm — two  hundred  ewes  and  a  hundred  more  to 
come  in  dree  days.  Master,  he  sent  I  to  say  you  be 
wanted."    And  away  the  man  went. 

Isaac  jumped  up  and  hurried  forth  without  taking  his 
crook  from  the  corner  and  actually  without  putting  on 
his  hat!  His  wife  called  out  after  him,  and  getting  no 
response  sent  the  boy  with  his  hat  to  overtake  him.  But 
the  little  fellow  soon  returned  with  the  hat — he  could  not 
overtake  his  father! 

He  was  away  three  or  four  hours  at  the  farm,  then 
returned,  his  hair  very  wet,  his  face  beaming,  and  sat 
down  with  a  great  sigh  of  pleasure.  "Two  hundred 
ewes,"  he  said,  "and  a  hundred  more  to  come — what  d'you 
think  of  that?" 

"Well,  Isaac,"  said  she,  "I  hope  thee'll  be  happy  now 
and  let  I  alone." 


SHEPHERD    ISAAC    BAWCOMBE    79 

After  all  that  had  been  told  to  me  about  the  elder 
Bawcombe's  life  and  character,  it  came  somewhat  as  a 
shock  to  learn  that  at  one  period  during  his  early  man- 
hood he  had  indulged  in  one  form  of  poaching — a  sport 
which  had  a  marvellous  fascination  for  the  people  of 
England  in  former  times,  but  was  pretty  well  extinguished 
during  the  first  quarter  of  the  last  century.    Deer  he  had 


HURDLE     PITCHING 


taken ;  and  the  whole  tale  of  the  deer-stealing,  which  was 
a  common  offence  in  that  part  of  Wiltshire  down  to  about 
1834,  sounds  strange  at  the  present  day. 

Large  herds  of  deer  were  kept  at  that  time  at  an  estate 
a  few  miles  from  Winterbourne  Bishop,  and  it  often 
happened  that  many  of  the  animals  broke  bounds  and 
roamed  singly  and  in  small  bands  over  the  hills.  When 
deer  were  observed  in  the  open,  certain  of  the  villagers 
would  settle  on  some  plan  of  action;  watchers  would  be 
sent  out  not  only  to  keep  an  eye  on  the  deer  but  on  the 


80  (A:   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

keepers  too.  Much  depended  on  the  state  of  the  weather 
and  the  moon,  as  some  hght  was  necessary;  then,  when 
the  conditions  were  favourable  and  the  keepers  had  been 
watched  to  their  cottages,  the  gang  would  go  out  for  a 
night's  hunting.  But  it  was  a  dangerous  sport,  as  the 
keepers  also  knew  that  deer  were  out  of  bounds,  and 
they  would  form  some  counter-plan,  and  one  peculiarly 
nasty  plan  they  had  was  to  go  out  about  three  of  four 
o'clock  in  the  morning  and  secrete  themselves  somewhere 
close  to  the  village  to  intercept  the  poachers  on  their 
return. 

Bawcombe,  who  never  In  his  life  associated  with  the 
village  idlers  and  frequenters  of  the  ale-house,  had  no 
connexion  with  these  men.  His  expeditions  were  made 
alone  on  some  dark,  unpromising  night,  when  the  regular 
poachers  were  in  bed  and  asleep.  He  would  steal  away 
after  bedtime,  or  would  go  out  ostensibly  to  look  after  the 
sheep,  and,  if  fortunate,  would  return  in  the  small  hours 
with  a  deer  on  his  back.  Then,  helped  by  his  mother, 
with  whom  he  lived  ( for  this  was  when  he  was  a  young 
unmarried  man,  about  1820),  he  would  quickly  skin  and 
cut  up  the  carcass,  stow  the  meat  away  in  some  secret 
place,  and  bury  the  head,  hide,  and  offal  deep  in  the  earth ; 
and  when  morning  came  it  would  find  Isaac  out  following 
his  flock  as  usual,  with  no  trace  of  guilt  or  fatigue  in  his 
rosy  cheeks  and  clear,  honest  eyes. 

This  was  a  very  astonishing  story  to  hear  from  Caleb, 
but  to  suspect  him  of  inventing  or  of  exaggerating  was 
impossible  to  anyone  who  knew  him.  And  we  have  seen 
that  Isaac  Bawcombe  was  an  exceptional  man — physically 
a  kind  of  Alexander  Selkirk  of  the  Wiltshire  Downs. 


SHEPHERD    ISAAC    BAWCOMBE    81 

And  he,  moreover,  had  a  dog  to  help  him — one  as  superior 
in  speed  and  strength  to  the  ordinary  sheep-dog  as  he  him- 
self was  to  the  ruck  of  his  fellow-men.  It  was  only  after 
much  questioning  on  my  part  that  Caleb  brought  himself 
to  tell  me  of  these  ancient  adventures,  and  finally  to  give 
a  detailed  account  of  how  his  father  came  to  take  his 
first  deer.  It  was  in  the  depth  of  winter — bitterly  cold, 
with  a  strong  north  wind  blowing  on  the  snow-covered 
downs — when  one  evening  Isaac  caught  sight  of  two  deer 
out  on  his  sheep-walk.  In  that  part  of  Wiltshire  there  is 
a  famous  monument  of  antiquity,  a  vast  mound-like  wall, 
with  a  deep  depression  or  fosse  running  at  its  side.  Now 
it  happened  that  on  the  highest  part  of  the  down,  where 
the  wall  or  mound  was  most  exposed  to  the  blast,  the  snow 
had  been  blown  clean  off  the  top,  and  the  deer  were  feed- 
ing here  on  the  short  turf,  keeping  to  the  ridge,  so  that, 
outlined  against  the  sky,  they  had  become  visible  to  Isaac 
at  a  great  distance. 

He  saw  and  pondered.  These  deer,  just  now,  while 
out  of  bonds,  were  no  man's  property,  and  it  would  be  no 
sin  to  kill  and  eat  one — if  he  could  catch  it! — and  it  was 
a  season  of  bitter  want.  For  many  many  days  he  had 
eaten  his  barley  bread,  and  on  some  days  barley-flour 
dumplings,  and  had  been  content  with  this  poor  fare ;  but 
now  the  sight  of  these  animals  made  him  crave  for  meat 
with  an  intolerable  craving,  and  he  determined  to  do  some- 
thing to  satisfy  it. 

He  Avent  home  and  had  his  poor  supper,  and  when  it 
was  dark  set  forth  again  with  his  dog.  He  found  the 
deer  still  feeding  on  the  mound.  Stealing  softly  along 
among  the  furze-bushes,  he  got  the  black  line  of  the 


82  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

mound  against  the  starry  sky,  and  by  and  by,  as  he  moved 
along,  the  black  figures  of  the  deer,  with  their  heads  down, 
came  into  view.  He  then  doubled  back  and,  proceeding 
some  distance,  got  down  into  the  fosse  and  stole  forward 
to  them  again  under  the  wall.  His  idea  was  that  on  taking 
alarm  they  would  immediately  make  for  the  forest  which 
was  their  home,  and  would  probably  pass  near  him.  They 
did  not  hear  him  until  he  was  within  sixty  yards,  and 
then  bounded  down  from  the  wall,  over  the  dyke,  and 
away,  but  in  almost  opposite  directions — one  alone  mak- 
ing for  the  forest ;  and  on  this  one  the  dog  was  set.  Out 
he  shot  like  an  arrow  from  the  bow,  and  after  him  ran 
Isaac  "as  he  had  never  runned  afore  in  all  his  life".  For 
a  short  space  deer  and  dog  in  hot  pursuit  were  visible  on 
the  snow,  then  the  darkness  swallowed  them  up  as  they 
rushed  down  the  slope;  but  in  less  than  half  a  minute 
a  sound  came  back  to  Isaac,  flying,  too,  down  the  incline 
— the  long,  wailing  cry  of  a  deer  in  distress.  The  dog  had 
seized  his  quarry  by  one  of  the  front  legs,  a  little  above  the 
hoof,  and  held  it  fast,  and  they  were  struggling  on  the 
snow  when  Isaac  came  up  and  flung  himself  upon  his 
victim,  then  thrust  his  knife  through  its  windpipe  "to 
stop  its  noise".  Having  killed  it,  he  threw  it  on  his  back 
and  went  home,  not  by  the  turnpike,  nor  by  any  road  or 
path,  but  over  fields  and  through  copses  until  he  got  to 
the  back  of  his  mother's  cottage.  There  was  no  door  on 
that  side,  but  there  was  a  window,  and  when  he  had 
rapped  at  it  and  his  mother  opened  it,  without  speaking  a 
word  he  thrust  the  dead  deer  through,  then  made  his  way 
round  to  the  front. 

That  was  how  he  killed  his  first  deer.    How  the  others 
were  taken  I  do  not  know;  I  wish  I  did,  since  this  one 


SHEPHERD    ISAAC    BAWCOMBE    83 

exploit  of  a  Wiltshire  shepherd  has  more  interest  for  me 
than  I  find  in  fifty  narratives  of  elephants  slaughtered 
wholesale  with  explosive  bullets,  written  for  the  delight 
and  astonishment  of  the  reading  public  by  our  most 
glorious  Nimrods. 


CHAPTER   VII 
The  Deer-Stealers 

Deer-stealing  on  Salisbury  Plain — The  head-keeper  Har- 
butt — Strange  story  of  a  baby — Found  as  a  surname 
— John  Barter,  the  village  carpenter  —  How  the 
keeper  was  fooled — A  poaching  attack  planned — 
The  fight  —  Head-keeper  and  carpenter  —  The  car- 
penter hides  his  son — The  arrest — Barter's  sons  for- 
sake the  village 

There  were  other  memories  of  deer-taking  handed  down 
to  Caleb  by  his  parents,  and  the  one  best  worth  preserving 
relates  to  the  head-keeper  of  the  preserves,  or  chase,  and 
to  a  great  fight  in  which  he  was  engaged  with  two  brothers 
of  the  girl  who  was  afterwards  to  be  Isaac's  wife. 

Here  it  may  be  necessary  to  explain  that  formerly  the 
owner  of  Cranbourne  Chase,  at  that  time  Lord  Rivers, 
claimed  the  deer  and  the  right  to  preserve  and  hunt  over 
a  considerable  extent  of  country  outside  of  his  own  lands. 

84 


THE    DEER-STEALERS  85 

On  the  Wiltshire  side  these  rights  extended  from  Cran- 
bourne  Chase  over  the  South  Wiltshire  Downs  to  Salis- 
bury, and  the  whole  territory,  about  thirty  miles  broad, 
was  divided  into  beats  or  walks,  six  or  eight  in  number, 
each  beat  provided  with  a  keeper's  lodge.  This  state  of 
things  continued  to  the  year  1834,  when  the  chase  was 
"disfranchised"  by  Act  of  Parliament. 

The  incident  I  am  going  to  relate  occurred  about  1815 
or  perhaps  two  or  three  years  later.  The  border  of  one 
of  the  deer  walks  was  at  a  spot  known  as  Three  Downs 
Place,  two  miles  and  a  half  from  Winterbourne  Bishop. 
Here  in  a  hollow  of  the  downs  there  was  an  extensive 
wood,  and  just  within  the  wood  a  large  stone  house,  said 
to  be  centuries  old  but  long  pulled  down,  called  Rollston 
House,  in  which  the  head-keeper  lived  with  two  under- 
keepers.  He  had  a  wife  but  no  children,  and  was  a 
middle-aged,  thick-set,  very  dark  man,  powerful  and 
vigilant,  a  "tarrable"  hater  and  persecutor  of  poachers, 
feared  and  hated  by  them  in  turn,  and  his  name  was 
Harbutt. 

It  happened  that  one  morning,  when  he  had  unbarred 
the  front  door  to  go  out,  he  found  a  great  difficulty  in 
opening  it,  caused  by  a  heavy  object  having  been  fastened 
to  the  door-handle.  It  proved  to  be  a  basket  or  box,  in 
which  a  well-nourished,  nice-looking  boy  baby  was  sleep- 
ing, well  wrapped  up  and  covered  with  a  cloth.  On  the 
cloth  a  scrap  of  paper  was  pinned  with  the  following  lines 
written  on  it: 

Take  me  in  and  treat  me  well, 

For  in   this   house   my   father  dwell. 

Harbutt  read  the  lines  and  didn't  even  smile  at  the  gram- 
mar; on  the  contrary,  he  appeared  very  much  upset,  and 


86 


A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 


was  still  standing  holding  the  paper,  staring  stupidly  at 
it,  when  his  wife  came  on  the  scene.  "What  be  this?" 
she  exclaimed,  and  looked  first  at  the  paper,  then  at  him, 
then  at  the  rosy  child  fast  asleep  in  its  cradle;  and  in- 
stantly, with  a  great  cry,  she  fell  on  it  and  snatched  it 
up  in  her  arms,  and  holding  it  clasped  to  her  bosom,  began 
lavishing  caresses  and  endearing  expressions  on  it,  tears 


of  rapture  in  her  eyes!  Not  one  word  of  inquiry  or 
bitter,  jealous  reproach — all  that  part  of  her  was  swal- 
lowed up  and  annihilated  in  the  joy  of  a  woman  who  had 
been  denied  a  child  of  her  own  to  love  and  nourish  and 
worship.  And  now  one  had  come  to  her  and  it  mattered 
little  how.  Two  or  three  days  later  the  infant  was 
baptized  at  the  village  church  with  the  quaint  name  of 
Moses  Found. 

Caleb  was  a  little  surprised  at  my  thinking  it  a  laugh- 
able name.  It  was  to  his  mind  a  singularly  appropriate 
one ;  he  assured  me  it  was  not  the  only  case  he  knew  of 


THE    DEER-STEALERS  87 

in  which  the  surname  Found  had  been  bestowed  on  a  child 
of  unknown  parentage,  and  he  told  me  the  story  of  one  of 
the  Founds  who  had  gone  to  Salisbury  as  a  boy  and 
worked  and  saved  and  eventually  become  quite  a  prosper- 
ous and  important  person.  There  was  really  nothing 
funny  in  it. 

The  story  of  Moses  Found  had  been  told  him  by  his 
old  mother ;  she,  he  remarked  significantly,  had  good  cause 
to  remember  it.  She  was  herself  a  native  of  the  village, 
born  two  or  three  years  later  than  the  mysterious  Moses ; 
her  father,  John  Barter  by  name,  was  a  carpenter  and 
lived  in  an  old,  thatched  house  which  still  exists  and  is 
very  familiar  to  me.  He  had  five  sons;  then,  after  an 
interval  of  some  years,  a  daughter  was  born,  who  in  due 
time  was  to  be  Isaac's  wife.  When  she  was  a  little  girl 
her  brothers  were  all  grown  up  or  on  the  verge  of  man- 
hood, and  Moses,  too,  was  a  young  man — "the  spit  of  his 
father,"  people  said,  meaning  the  head-keeper — and  he 
was  now  one  of  Har butt's  under-keepers. 

About  this  time  some  of  the  more  ardent  spirits  In  the 
village,  not  satisfied  with  an  occasional  hunt  when  a  deer 
broke  out  and  roamed  over  the  downs,  took  to  poaching 
them  in  the  woods.  One  night,  a  hunt  having  been  ar- 
ranged, one  of  the  most  daring  of  the  men  secreted  him- 
self close  to  the  keeper's  house,  and  having  watched  the 
keepers  go  in  and  the  light  put  out,  he  actually  succeeded 
in  fastening  up  the  doors  from  the  outside  with  screws 
and  pieces  of  wood  without  creating  an  alarm.  He  then 
met  his  confederates  at  an  agreed  spot  and  the  hunting 
began,  during  which  one  deer  was  chased  to  the  house  and 
actually  pulled  down  and  killed  on  the  lawn. 

Meanwhile  the  inmates  were  in  a  state  of  great  excite- 


88  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

ment ;  the  under-keepers  feared  that  a  force  it  would  be 
dangerous  to  oppose  had  taken  possession  of  the  woods, 
while  Harbutt  raved  and  roared  like  a  maddened  wild 
beast  in  a  cage,  and  put  forth  all  his  strength  to  pull  the 
doors  open.  Finally  he  smashed  a  window  and  leaped  out, 
gun  in  hand,  and  calling  the  others  to  follow  rushed  into 
the  wood.  But  he  was  too  late;  the  hunt  was  over  and 
the  poachers  had  made  good  their  escape,  taking  the 
carcasses  of  two  or  three  deer  they  had  succeeded  in 
killing. 

The  keeper  was  not  to  be  fooled  in  the  same  way  a 
second  time,  and  before  very  long  he  had  his  revenge. 
A  fresh  raid  was  planned,  and  on  this  occasion  two  of 
the  five  brothers  were  in  it,  and  there  were  four  more, 
the  blacksmith  of  Winterboume  Bishop,  their  best  man, 
two  famous  shearers,  father  and  son,  from  a  neighbouring 
village,  and  a  young  farm  labourer. 

They  knew  very  well  that  with  the  head-keeper  in  his 
present  frame  of  mind  it  was  a  risky  affair,  and  they 
made  a  solemn  compact  that  if  caught  they  would  stand 
by  one  another  to  the  end.  And  caught  they  were,  and 
on  this  occasion  the  keepers  were  four. 

At  the  very  beginning  the  blacksmith,  their  ablest  man 
and  virtual  leader,  was  knocked  down  senseless  with  a 
blow  on  his  head  with  the  butt  end  of  a  gun.  Immediately 
on  seeing  this  the  two  famous  shearers  took  to  their  heels 
and  the  young  labourer  followed  their  example.  The 
brothers  were  left  but  refused  to  be  taken,  although 
Harbutt  roared  at  them  in  his  bull's  voice  that  he  would 
shoot  them  unless  they  surrendered.  They  made  light 
of  his  threats  and  fought  against  the  four,  and  eventually 
were  separated.    By  and  by  the  younger  of  the  two  was 


THE    DEER-STEALERS  89 

driven  into  a  brambly  thicket  where  his  opponents  im- 
agined that  it  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  escape.  But 
he  was  a  youth  of  indomitable  spirit,  strong  and  agile  as 
a  wild  cat ;  and  returning  blow  for  blow  he  succeeded  in 
tearing  himself  from  them,  then  after  a  running  fight 
through  the  darkest  part  of  the  wood  for  a  distance  of 
two  or  three  hundred  yards  they  at  length  lost  him  or 
gave  him  up  and  went  back  to  assist  Harbutt  and  Moses 
against  the  other  man.  Left  to  himself  he  got  out  of  the 
wood  and  made  his  way  back  to  the  village.  It  was  long 
past  midnight  when  he  turned  up  at  his  father's  cottage,  a 
pitiable  object  covered  with  mud  and  blood,  hatless,  his 
clothes  torn  to  shreds,  his  face  and  whole  body  covered 
with  bruises  and  bleeding  wounds. 

The  old  man  was  in  a  great  state  of  distress  about  his 
other  son,  and  early  in  the  morning  went  to  examine  the 
ground  where  the  fight  had  been.  It  was  only  too  easily 
found ;  the  sod  was  trampled  down  and  branches  broken 
as  though  a  score  of  men  had  been  engaged.  Then  he 
found  his  eldest  son's  cap,  and  a  little  farther  away  a 
sleeve  of  his  coat ;  shreds  and  rags  were  numerous  on  the 
bramble  bushes,  and  by  and  by  he  came  on  a  pool  of 
blood.  "They've  kill  'n!"  he  cried  in  despair,  "they've 
killed  my  poor  boy !"  and  straight  to  Rollston  House  he 
went  to  inquire,  and  was  met  by  Harbutt  himself,  who 
came  out  limping,  one  boot  on,  the  other  foot  bound  up 
with  rags,  one  arm  in  a  sling  and  a  cloth  tied  round  his 
head.  He  was  told  that  his  son  was  alive  and  safe  indoors 
and  that  he  would  be  taken  to  Salisbury  later  in  the  day. 
"His  clothes  be  all  torn  to  pieces,"  added  the  keeper. 
"You  can  just  go  home  at  once  and  git  him  others  before 
the  constable  comes  to  take  him." 


90  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

"You've  tored  them  to  pieces  yourself  and  you  can 
git  him  others,"  retorted  the  old  man  in  a  rage. 

"Very  well,"  said  the  keeper,  "But  bide  a  moment — 
I've  something  more  to  say  to  you.  When  your  son 
comes  out  of  jail  in  a  year  or  so  you  tell  him  from  me 
that  if  he'll  just  step  up  this  way  I'll  give  him  five  shillings 
and  as  much  beer  as  he  likes  to  drink.  I  never  see'd  a 
better  fighter!" 

It  was  a  great  compliment  to  his  son,  but  the  old  man 
was  troubled  in  his  mind.  "What  dost  mean,  keeper,  by 
a  year  or  so?"  he  asked. 

"When  I  said  that,"  returned  the  other  with  a  grin, 
"I  was  just  thinking  what  'twould  be  he  deserves  to  git." 

"And  you'd  agot  your  deserts,  by  God,"  cried  the  angry 
father,  "if  that  boy  of  mine  hadn't  a-been  left  alone  to 
fight  ye!" 

Harbutt  regarded  him  with  a  smile  of  gratified  malice. 
"You  can  go  home  now,"  he  said.  "If  you'd  see  your  son 
you'll  find  'n  in  Salisbury  jail.  Maybe  you'll  be  wanting 
new  locks  on  your  doors;  you  can  git  they  in  Salisbury 
too — you've  no  blacksmith  in  your  village  now.  No,  your 
boy  weren't  alone  and  you  know  that  damned  well." 

*"I  know  naught  about  that,"  he  returned,  and  started 
to  walk  home  with  a  heavy  heart.  Until  now  he  had  been 
clinging  to  the  hope  that  the  other  son  had  not  been 
identified  in  the  dark  wood.  And  now  what  could  he  do 
to  save  one  of  the  two  from  hateful  imprisonment?  The 
boy  was  not  in  a  fit  condition  to  make  his  escape ;  he  could 
hardly  get  across  the  room  and  could  not  sit  or  lie  down 
without  groaning.  He  could  only  try  to  hide  him  in  the 
cottage  and  pray  that  they  would  not  discover  him.  The 
cottage  was  in  the  middle  of  the  village  and  had  but  little 


THE    DEER-STEALERS  91 

ground  to  it,  but  there  was  a  small,  boarded-up  cavity  or 
cell  at  one  end  of  an  attic,  and  it  might  be  possible  to 
save  him  by  putting  him  in  there.  Here,  then,  in  a  bed 
placed  for  him  on  the  floor,  his  bruised  son  was  obliged 
to  lie,  in  the  close,  dark  hole,  for  some  days. 

One  day,  about  a  week  later,  when  he  was  recovering 
from  his  hurts,  he  crawled  out  of  his  box  and  climbed 
down  the  narrow  stairs  to  the  ground  floor  to  see  the  light 
and  breathe  a  better  air  for  a  short  time,  and  while  down 
he  was  tempted  to  take  a  peep  at  the  street  through  the 
small,  latticed  window.  But  he  quickly  withdrew  his 
head  and  by  and  by  said  to  his  father,  "I'm  feared  Moses 
has  seen  me.  Just  now  when  I  was  at  the  window  he  came 
by  and  looked  up  and  see'd  me  with  my  head  all  tied  up, 
and  I'm  feared  he  knew  'twas  I." 

After  that  they  could  only  wait  in  fear  and  trembling, 
and  on  the  next  day  quite  early  there  came  a  loud  rap  at 
the  door,  and  on  its»being  opened  by  the  old  man  the  con- 
stable and  two  keepers  appeared  standing  before  him, 

"I've  come  to  take  your  son,"  said  the  constable. 

The  old  man  stepped  back  without  a  word  and  took 
down  his  gun  from  its  place  on  the  wall,  then  spoke:  "If 
you've  got  a  search-warrant  you  may  come  in;  if  you 
haven't  got'n  I'll  blow  the  brains  out  of  the  first  man 
that  puts  a  foot  inside  my  door". 

They  hesitated  a  few  moments  then  silently  withdrew. 
After  consulting  together  the  constable  went  off  to  the 
nearest  magistrate,  leaving  the  two  keepers  to  keep  watch 
on  the  house:  Moses  Found  was  one  of  them.  Later  in 
the  day  the  constable  returned  armed  with  a  warrant  and 
was  thereupon  admitted,  with  the  result  that  the  poor 
youth  was  soon  discovered  in  his  hiding-place  and  carried 


92  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

off.  And  that  was  the  last  he  saw  of  his  home,  his 
young  sister  crying  bitterly  and  his  old  father  white  and 
trembling  with  grief  and  impotent  rage. 

A  month  or  two  later  the  two  brothers  were  tried  and 
sentenced  each  to  six  months'  imprisonment.  They  never 
came  home.  On  their  release  they  went  to  Woolwich, 
where  men  were  wanted  and  the  pay  was  good.  And  by 
and  by  the  accounts  they  sent  home  induced  first  one  then 
the  other  brother  to  go  and  join  them,  and  the  poor  old 
father,  who  had  been  very  proud  of  his  five  sons,  was  left 
alone  with  his  young  daughter — Isaac's  destined  wife. 


f^^m&r^^ 


GoriBr.oot«  «»» -aa.  Bourne 


CHAPTER   VIII 
Shepherds  and  Poaching 

General  remarks  on  poaching — Farmer,  shepherd,  and 
dog — A  sheep-dog  that  would  not  hunt — Taking  a 
partridge  from  a  hawk  —  Old  Gaarge  and  Young 
Gaarge — Partridge-poaching — The  shepherd  robbed 
of  his  rabbits — Wisdom  of  Shepherd  Gathergood — 
Hare-trapping  on  the  down — Hare-taking  with  a 
crook 

When  Caleb  was  at  length  free  from  his  father's  tutelage, 
and  as  an  under-shepherd  practically  independent,  he  did 
not  follow  Isaac's  strict  example  with  regard  to  wild 
animals,  good  for  the  pot,  which  came  by  chance  in  his 
way ;  he  even  allowed  himself  to  go  a  little  out  of  his  way 
on  occasion  to  get  them. 

We  know  that  about  this  matter  the  law  of  the  land 
does  not  square  with  the  moral  law  as  it  is  written  in  the 
heart  of  the  peasant.  A  wounded  partridge  or  other  bird 
which  he  finds  in  his  walks  abroad  or  which  comes  by 

93 


94  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

chance  to  him  is  his  by  a  natural  right,  and  he  will  take 
and  eat  or  dispose  of  it  without  scruple.  With  rabbits 
he  is  very  free — he  doesn't  wait  to  find  a  distressed  one 
with  a  stoat  on  its  track — stoats  are  not  sufficiently  abun- 
dant ;  and  a  hare,  too,  may  be  picked  up  at  any  moment ; 
only  in  this  case  he  must  be  very  sure  that  no  one  is 
looking.  Knowing  the  law,  and  being  perhaps  a  respect- 
able, religious  person,  he  is  anxious  to  abstain  from  all 
appearance  of  evil.  This  taking  a  hare  or  rabbit  or 
wounded  partridge  is  in  his  mind  a  very  different  thing 
from  systematic  poaching;  but  he  is  aware  that  to  the 
classes  above  him  it  is  not  so — the  law  has  made  them  one. 
It  is  a  hard,  arbitrary,  unnatural  law,  made  by  and  for 
them,  his  betters,  and  outwardly  he  must  conform  to  it. 
Thus  you  will  find  the  best  of  men  among  the  shepherds 
and  labourers  freely  helping  themselves  to  any  wild 
creature  that  falls  in  their  way,  yet  sharing  the  game- 
preserver's  hatred  of  the  real  poacher.  The  village 
poacher  as  a  rule  is  an  idle,  dissolute  fellow,  and  the  sober, 
industrious,  righteous  shepherd  or  ploughman  or  carter 
does  not  like  to  be  put  on  a  level  with  such  a  person.  But 
there  is  no  escape  from  the  hard  and  fast  rule  in  such 
things,  and  however  open  and  truthful  he  may  be  in  every- 
thing else,  in  this  one  matter  he  is  obliged  to  practise  a 
certain  amount  of  deception.  Here  is  a  case  to  serve  as 
an  illustration;  I  have  only  just  heard  it,  after  putting  to- 
gether the  material  I  had  collected  for  this  chapter,  in 
conversation  with  an  old  shepherd  friend  of  mine. 

He  is  a  fine  old  man  who  has  followed  a  flock  these 
fifty  years,  and  will,  I  have  no  doubt,  carry  his  crook 
for  yet  another  ten.  Not  only  is  he  a  "good  shepherd," 
in  the  sense  in  which  Caleb  uses  that  phrase,  with  a  more 


SHEPHERDS   AND    POACHING      95 

intimate  knowledge  of  sheep  and  all  the  ailments  they  are 
subject  to  than  I  have  found  in  any  other,  but  he  is  also 
a  truly  religious  man,  one  that  "walks  with  God".  He 
told  me  this  story  of  a  sheep-dog  he  owned  when  head- 
shepherd  on  a  large  farm  on  the  Dorsetshire  border  with 
a  master  whose  chief  delight  in  life  was  in  coursing  hares. 
They  abounded  on  his  land,  and  he  naturally  wanted  the 
men  employed  on  the  farm  to  regard  them  as  sacred  ani- 
mals. One  day  he  came  out  to  the  shepherd  to  complain 
that  some  one  had  seen  his  dog  hunting  a  hare. 

The  shepherd  indignantly  asked  who  had  said  such  a 
thing. 

"Never  mind  about  that,"  said  the  farmer.  "Is  it 
true?" 

"It  is  a  lie,"  said  the  shepherd.  "My  dog  never  hunts 
a  hare  or  anything  else.  'Tis  my  belief  the  one  that  said 
that  has  got  a  dog  himself  that  hunts  the  hares  and  he 
wants  to  put  the  blame  on  some  one  else." 

"May  be  so,"  said  the  farmer,  unconvinced. 

Just  then  a  hare  made  its  appearance,  coming  across  the 
field  directly  towards  them,  and  either  because  they  never 
moved  or  it  did  not  smell  them  it  came  on  and  on,  stopping 
at  intervals  to  sit  for  a  minute  or  so  on  its  haunches,  then 
on  again  until  it  was  within  forty  yards  of  where  they 
were  standing.  The  farmer  watched  it  approach  and  at 
the  same  time  kept  an  eye  on  the  dog  sitting  at  their  feet 
and  watching  the  hare  too,  very  steadily.  "Now,  shep- 
herd," said  the  farmer,  "don't  you  say  one  word  to  the 
dog  and  I'll  see  for  myself."  Not  a  word  did  he  say,  and 
the  hare  came  and  sat  for  some  seconds  near  them,  then 
limped  away  out  of  sight,  and  the  dog  made  not  the 
slightest  movement.    "That's  all  right,"  said  the  farmer. 


96  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

well  pleased.  "I  know  now  'twas  a  lie  I  heard  about 
your  dog.  I've  seen  for  myself  and  I'll  just  keep  a  sharp 
eye  on  the  man  that  told  me." 

My  comment  on  this  story  was  that  the  farmer  had  dis- 
played an  almost  incredible  ignorance  of  a  sheep-dog — 
and  a  shepherd.  "How  would  it  have  been  if  you  had 
said,  'Catch  him,  Bob,'  or  whatever  his  name  was?"  I 
asked. 

He  looked  at  me  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye  and  replied, 
"I  do  b'lieve  he'd  ha'  got  'n,  but  he'd  never  move  till  I 
told  'n". 

It  comes  to  this:  the  shepherd  refuses  to  believe  tha.  by 
taking  a  hare  he  is  robbing  any  man  of  his  property,  and 
if  he  is  obliged  to  tell  a  lie  to  save  himself  from  the  con- 
sequences he  does  not  consider  that  it  is  a  lie. 

When  he  understood  that  I  was  on  his  side  in  this 
question,  he  told  me  about  a  good  sheep-dog  he  once 
possessed  which  he  had  to  get  rid  of  because  he  would  not 
take  a  hare! 

A  dog  when  broken  is  made  to  distinguish  between  the 
things  he  must  and  must  not  do.  He  Is  "feelingly  per- 
suaded" by  kind  words  and  caresses  in  one  case  and  hard 
words  and  hard  blows  in  the  other.  He  learns  that  if  he 
hunts  hares  and  rabbits  It  will  be  very  bad  for  him,  and 
in  due  time,  after  some  suffering,  he  is  able  to  overcome 
this  strongest  Instinct  of  a  dog.  He  acquires  an  artificial 
conscience.  Then,  when  his  education  is  finished,  he 
must  be  made  to  understand  that  It  Is  not  quite  finished 
after  all — that  he  must  partially  unlearn  one  of  the  saddest 
of  the  lessons  Instilled  In  him.  He  must  hunt  a  hare  or 
rabbit  when  told  by  his  master  to  do  so.  It  is  a  compact 
between  man  and  dog.    Thus,  they  have  got  a  law  which 


SHEPHERDS   AND    POACHING     97 

the  dog  has  sworn  to  obey ;  but  the  man  who  made  it  is 
above  the  hiw  and  can  when  he  thinks  proper  command 
his  servant  to  break  it.  The  dog,  as  a  rule,  takes  it  all  in 
very  readily  and  often  allows  himself  more  liberty  than 
his  master  gives  him;  the  most  highly  accomplished  ani- 
mal is  one  that,  like  my  shepherd's  dog  in  the  former  in- 
stance, will  not  stir  till  he  is  told.  In  the  other  case  the 
poor  brute  could  not  rise  to  the  position ;  it  was  too  com- 
plex for  him,  and  when  ordered  to  catch  a  rabbit  he  could 
only  put  his  tail  between  his  legs  and  look  in  a  puzzled 
way  at  his  master.  "Why  do  you  tell  me  to  do  a  thing 
for  which  I  shall  be  thrashed  ?" 

It  was  only  after  Caleb  had  known  me  some  time,  when 
we  were  fast  friends,  that  he  talked  with  perfect  freedom 
of  these  things  and  told  me  of  his  own  small,  illicit  takings 
without  excuse  or  explanation. 

One  day  he  saw  a  sparrowhawk  dash  down  upon  a 
running  partridge  and  struggle  with  it  on  the  ground.  It 
was  in  a  grass  field,  divided  from  the  one  he  was  walking 
in  by  a  large,  unkept  hedge  without  a  gap  in  it  to  let  him 
through.  Presently  the  hawk  rose  up  with  the  partridge 
still  violently  struggling  in  its  talons,  and  flew  over  the 
hedge  to  Caleb's  side,  but  was  no  sooner  over  than  it  came 
down  again  and  the  struggle  went  on  once  more  on  the 
ground.  On  Caleb  running  to  the  spot  the  hawk  flew  off, 
leaving  his  prey  behind.  He  had  grasped  it  in  its  sides, 
driving  his  sharp  claws  well  in,  and  the  partridge,  though 
unable  to  fly,  was  still  alive.  The  shepherd  killed  it  and 
put  it  in  his  pocket,  and  enjoyed  It  very  much  when  he 
came  to  eat  It. 

From  this  case,  a  most  innocent  form  of  poaching,  he 
went  on  to  relate  how  he  had  once  been  able  to  deprive  a 


98 


A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 


cunning  poacher  and  a  bad  man,  a  human  sparrowhawk, 
of  his  quarry. 

There  were  two  persons  in  the  village,  father  and  son, 
he  very  heartily  detested,  known  respectively  as  Old 
Gaarge  and  Young  Gaarge,  inveterate  poachers  both. 
They  were  worse  than  the  real  reprobate  who  haunted  the 


BC6 


SHEPHERDS  AtiD  THEJR  DOQS 


public-house  and  did  no  work  and  was  not  ashamed  of  his 
evil  ways,  for  these  two  were  hypocrites  and  were  out- 
wardly sober,  righteous  men,  who  kept  themselves  a 
little  apart  from  their  neighbours  and  were  very  severe  in 
their  condemnation  of  other  people's  faults. 

One  Sunday  morning  Caleb  was  on  his  way  to  his  ewes 
folded  at  a  distance  from  the  village,  walking  by  a  hedge- 
row at  the  foot  of  the  down,  when  he  heard  a  shot  fired 
some  way  ahead,  and  after  a  minute  or  two  a  second  shot. 


SHEPHERDS   (AND    POACHING      99 

This  greatly  excited  his  curiosity  and  caused  him  to  keep 
a  sharp  look-out  in  the  direction  the  sounds  had  come 
from,  and  by  and  by  he  caught  sight  of  a  man  walking 
towards  him.  It  was  Old  Gaarge  in  his  long  smock-frock, 
proceeding  in  a  leisurely  way  towards  the  village,  but 
catching  sight  of  the  shepherd  he  turned  aside  through  a 
gap  in  the  hedge  and  went  off  in  another  direction  to  avoid 
meeting  him.  No  doubt,  thought  Caleb,  he  has  got  his 
gun  in  two  pieces  hidden  under  his  smock.  He  went  on 
until  he  came  to  a  small  field  of  oats  which  had  grown 
badly  and  had  only  been  half  reaped,  and  here  he  dis- 
covered that  Old  Gaarge  had  been  lying  in  hiding  to  shoot 
at  the  partridges  that  came  to  feed.  He  had  been  screened 
from  the  sight  of  the  birds  by  a  couple  of  hurdles  and 
some  straw,  and  there  were  feathers  of  the  birds  he  had 
shot  scattered  about.  He  had  finished  his  Sunday  morn- 
ing's sport  and  was  going  back,  a  little  too  late  on  this 
occasion  as  it  turned  out. 

Caleb  went  on  to  his  flock,  but  before  getting  to  it  his 
dog  discovered  a  dead  partridge  in  the  hedge ;  it  had  flown 
that  far  and  then  dropped,  and  there  was  fresh  blood  on 
its  feathers.  He  put  it  in  his  pocket  and  carried  it  about 
most  of  the  day  while  with  his  sheep  on  the  down.  Late 
in  the  afternoon  he  spied  two  magpies  pecking  at  some- 
thing out  in  the  middle  of  a  field  and  went  to  see  what 
they  had  found.  It  was  a  second  partridge  which  Old 
Gaarge  had  shot  in  the  morning  and  had  lost,  the  bird 
having  flown  to  some  distance  before  dropping.  The 
magpies  had  probably  found  it  already  dead,  as  it  was 
cold ;  they  had  begun  tearing  the  skin  at  the  neck  and  had 
opened  it  down  to  the  breast-bone.  Caleb  took  this  bird, 
too,  and  by  and  by,  sitting  down  to  examine  it,  he  thought 


100  A   SHEPHERD'S   LIFE 

he  would  try  to  mend  the  torn  skin  with  the  needle  and 
thread  he  always  carried  inside  his  cap.  He  succeeded  in 
stitching  it  neatly  up,  and  putting  back  the  feathers  in  their 
place  the  rent  was  quite  concealed.  That  evening  he  took 
the  two  birds  to  a  man  in  the  village  who  made  a  liveli- 
hood by  collecting  bones,  rags,  and  things  of  that  kind; 
the  man  took  the  birds  in  his  hand,  held  them  up,  felt 
their  weight,  examined  them  carefully,  and  pronounced 
them  to  be  two  good,  fat  birds,  and  agreed  to  pay  two 
shillings  for  them. 

Such  a  man  may  be  found  in  most  villages;  he  calls 
himself  a  "general  dealer,"  and  keeps  a  trap  and  pony — 
in  some  cases  he  keeps  the  ale-house — and  is  a  useful 
member  of  the  small,  rural  community — a  sort  of  human 
carrion-crow. 

The  two  shillings  were  very  welcome,  but  more  than  the 
money  was  the  pleasing  thought  that  he  had  got  the  birds 
shot  by  the  hypocritical  old  poacher  for  his  own  profit. 
Caleb  had  good  cause  to  hate  him.  He,  Caleb,  was  one 
of  the  shepherds  who  had  his  master's  permission  to  take 
rabbits  on  the  land,  and  having  found  his  snares  broken 
on  many  occasions  he  came  to  the  conclusion  that  they 
were  visited  in  the  night  time  by  some  very  cunning  per- 
son who  kept  a  watch  on  his  movements.  One  evening  he 
set  five  snares  in  a  turnip  field  and  went  just  before  day- 
light next  morning  in  a  dense  fog  to  visit  them.  Every 
one  was  broken !  He  had  just  started  on  his  way  back, 
feeling  angry  and  much  puzzled  at  such  a  thing,  when  the 
fog  at  once  passed  away  and  revealed  the  figures  of  two 
men  walking  hurriedly  off  over  the  down.  They  were  at 
a  considerable  distance,  but  the  light  was  now  strong 
enough  to  enable  him  to  identify  Old  Gaarge  and  Young 


SHEPHERDS   AND    POACHING    lOf 

Gaarge.  In  a  few  moments  they  vanished  over  the  brow. 
Caleb  was  mad  at  being  deprived  of  his  rabbits  in  this 
mean  way,  but  pleased  at  the  same  time  in  having  discov- 
ered who  the  culprits  were;  but  what  to  do  about  it  he 
did  not  know. 

On  the  following  day  he  was  with  his  flock  on  the  down 
and  found  himself  near  another  shepherd,  also  with  his 
sheep,  one  he  knew  very  well,  a  quiet  but  knowing  old 
man  named  Joseph  Gathergood.  He  was  known  to  be  a 
skilful  rabbit-catcher,  and  Caleb  thought  he  would  go 
over  to  him  and  tell  him  about  how  he  was  being  tricked 
by  the  two  Gaarges  and  ask  him  what  to  do  in  the  matter. 

The  old  man  was  very  friendly  and  at  once  told  him 
what  to  do.  "Don't  you  set  no  more  snares  by  the  hedges 
and  in  the  turmots,"  he  said.  "Set  them  out  on  the  open 
down  where  no  one  would  go  after  rabbits  and  they'll 
not  find  the  snares."  And  this  was  how  it  had  to  be  done. 
First  he  was  to  scrape  the  ground  with  the  heel  of  his 
boot  until  the  fresh  earth  could  be  seen  through  the  broken 
turf;  then  he  was  to  sprinkle  a  little  rabbit  scent  on  the 
scraped  spot,  and  plant  his  snare.  The  scent  and  smell  of 
the  fresh  earth  combined  would  draw  the  rabbits  to  the 
spot ;  they  would  go  there  to  scratch  and  would  inevitably 
get  caught  if  the  snare  was  properly  placed. 

Caleb  tried  this  plan  with  one  snare,  and  on  the  follow- 
ing morning  found  that  he  had  a  rabbit.  He  set  it  again 
that  evening,  then  again,  until  he  had  caught  five  rabbits 
on  five  consecutive  nights,  all  with  the  same  snare.  That 
convinced  him  that  he  had  been  taught  a  valuable  lesson 
and  that  old  Gathergood  was  a  very  wise  man  about 
rabbits ;  and  he  was  very  happy  to  think  that  he  had  got 
the  better  of  his  two  sneaking  enemies. 


102  'A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

But  Shepherd  Gathergood  was  just  as  wise  about  hares, 
and,  as  in  the  other  case,  he  took  them  out  on  the  down  in 
the  most  open  places.  His  success  was  due  to  his  knowl- 
edge of  the  hare's  taste  for  blackthorn  twigs.  He  would 
take  a  good,  strong  blackthorn  stem  or  shoot  with  twigs 
on  it,  and  stick  it  firmly  down  in  the  middle  of  a  large 
grass  field  or  on  the  open  down,  and  place  the  steel  trap 
tied  to  the  stick  at  a  distance  of  a  foot  or  so  from  it,  the 
trap  concealed  under  grass  or  moss  and  dead  leaves.  The 
smell  of  the  blackthorn  would  draw  the  hare  to  the  spot, 
and  he  would  move  round  and  round  nibbling  the  twigs 
until  caught. 

Caleb  never  tried  this  plan,  but  was  convinced  that 
Gathergood  was  right  about  it. 

He  told  me  of  another  shepherd  who  was  clever  at 
taking  hares  in  another  way,  and  who  was  often  chaffed 
by  his  acquaintances  on  account  of  the  extraordinary 
length  of  his  shepherd's  crook.  It  was  like  a  lance  or 
pole,  being  twice  the  usual  length.  But  he  had  a  use  for  it. 
This  shepherd  used  to  make  hares'  forms  on  the  downs  in 
all  suitable  places,  forming  them  so  cunningly  that  no  one 
seeing  them  by  chance  would  have  believed  they  were  the 
work  of  human  hands.  The  hares  certainly  made  use  of 
them.  When  out  with  his  flock  he  would  visit  these  forms, 
walking  quietly  past  them  at  a  distance  of  twenty  to 
thirty  feet,  his  dog  following  at  his  heels.  On  catching 
sight  of  a  hare  crouching  in  a  form  he  would  drop  a  word, 
and  the  dog  would  instantly  stand  still  and  remain  fixed 
and  motionless,  while  the  shepherd  went  on  but  in  a  circle 
so  as  gradually  to  approach  the  form.  Meanwhile  the 
hare  would  keep  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  dog,  paying  no  at- 
tention to  the  man,  until  by  and  by  the  long  staff  would 


SHEPPIERDS    AND    POACHING    103 

be  swung  round  and  a  blow  descend  on  the  poor,  silly 
head  from  the  opposite  side,  and  if  the  blow  was  not 
powerful  enough  to  stun  or  disable  the  hare,  the  dog 
would  have  it  before  it  got  many  yards  from  the  cosy  nest 
prepared  for  its  destruction. 


COOMBE  BI9SETT    om  tne  CSaLE 


CHAPTER   IX 
The  Shepherd  on  Foxes 

A  fox-trapping  shepherd — Gamekeepers  and  foxes — Fox 
and  stoat — A  gamekeeper  off  his  guard — Pheasants 
and  foxes — Caleb  kills  a  fox — A  fox-hunting  sheep- 
dog— Two  varieties  of  foxes — Rabbits  playing  with 
little  foxes — How  to  expel  foxes — A  playful  spirit 
in  the  fox — Fox-hunting  a  danger  to  sheep 

Caleb  related  that  his  friend  Shepherd  Gathergood  was 
a  great  fox-killer  and,  as  with  hares,  he  took  them  in  a 
way  of  his  own.  He  said  that  the  fox  will  always  go  to 
a  heap  of  ashes  in  any  open  place,  and  his  plan  was  to 
place  a  steel  trap  concealed  among  the  ashes,  made  fast  to 
a  stick  about  three  feet  high,  firmly  planted  in  the  middle 
of  the  heap,  with  a  piece  of  strong-smelling  cheese  tied  to 
the  top.  The  two  attractions  of  an  ash-heap  and  the  smell 
of  strong  cheese  was  more  than  any  fox  could  resist. 
When  he  caught  a  fox  he  killed  and  buried  it  on  the  down 

104 


THE    SHEPHERD    ON    FOXES      105 

and  said  "nothing  to  nobody"  about  it.  He  killed  them  to 
protect  himself  from  their  depredations;  foxes,  like  Old 
Gaarge  and  his  son  in  Caleb's  case,  went  around  at  night 
to  rob  him  of  the  rabbits  he  took  in  his  snares. 

Caleb  never  blamed  him  for  this;  on  the  contrary,  he 
greatly  admired  him  for  his  courage,  seeing  that  if  it  had 
been  found  out  he  would  have  been  a  marked  man.  It 
was  perhaps  intelligence  or  cunning  rather  than  courage ; 
he  did  not  believe  that  he  would  be  found  out,  and  he  never 
was;  he  told  Caleb  of  these  things  because  he  was  sure 
of  his  man.  Those  who  were  interested  in  the  hunt  never 
suspected  him,  and  as  to  gamekeepers,  they  hardly 
counted.  He  was  helping  them ;  no  one  hates  a  fox  more 
than  they  do.  The  farmer  gets  compensation  for  damage, 
and  the  hen-wife  is  paid  for  her  stolen  chickens  by  the 
hunt.  The  keeper  is  required  to  look  after  the  game, 
and  at  the  same  time  to  spare  his  chief  enemy,  the  fox. 
Indeed,  the  keeper's  state  of  mind  with  regard  to  foxes 
has  always  been  a  source  of  amusement  to  me,  and  by 
long  practice  I  am  able  to  talk  to  him  on  that  delicate  sub- 
ject in  a  way  to  make  him  uncomfortable  and  self-contra- 
dictory. There  are  various^  quite  innocent  questions 
which  the  student  of  wild  life  may  put  to  a  keeper  about 
foxes  which  have  a  disturbing  effect  on  his  brain.  How 
to  expel  foxes  from  a  covert,  for  example;  and  here  is 
another:  Is  it  true  that  the  fox  listens  for  the  distressed 
cries  of  a  rabbit  pursued  by  a  stoat  and  that  he  will  de- 
prive the  stoat  of  his  captive?  Perhaps ;  Yes ;  No,  I  don't 
think  so,  because  one  hunts  by  night,  the  other  by  day, 
he  will  answer,  but  you  see  that  the  question  troubles  him. 
One  keeper,  off  his  guard,  promptly  answered,  "I've  no 
doubt  of  It ;  I  can  always  bring  a  fox  to  me  by  Imitating 


106  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

the  cry  of  a  rabbit  hunted  by  a  stoat."  But  he  did  not 
say  what  his  object  was  in  attracting  the  fox.  . 

I  say  that  the  keeper  was  off  his  guard  in  this  instance, 
because  the  fiction  that  foxes  were  preserved  on  the  estate 
was  kept  up,  though  as  a  fact  they  were  systematically 
destroyed  by  the  keepers.  As  the  pheasant-breeding  craze 
appears  to  increase  rather  than  diminish,  notwithstanding 
the  disastrous  effect  it  has  had  in  alienating  the  people 
from  their  lords  and  masters,  the  conflict  of  interest  be- 
tween fox-hunter  and  pheasant-breeder  will  tend  to  be- 
come more  and  more  acute,  and  the  probable  end  will  be 
that  fox-hunting  will  have  to  go.  A  melancholy  outlook 
to  those  who  love  the  country  and  old  country  sports,  and 
who  do  not  regard  pheasant-shooting  as  now  followed  as 
sport  at  all.  It  is  a  delusion  of  the  landlords  that  the 
country  people  think  most  highly  of  the  great  pheasant- 
preserver  who  has  two  or  three  big  shoots  in  a  season, 
during  which  vast  numbers  of  birds  are  slaughtered — 
every  bird  "costing  a  guinea,"  as  the  saying  is.  It  brings 
money  into  the  country,  he  or  his  apologist  tells  you,  and 
provides  employment  for  the  village  poor  in  October  and 
November,  when  there  is  little  doing.  He  does  not  know 
the  truth  of  the  matter.  A  certain  number  of  the  poorer 
people  of  the  village  are  employed  as  beaters  for  the  big 
shoots  at  a  shilling  a  day  or  so,  and  occasionally  a  la- 
bourer, going  to  or  from  his  work,  finds  a  pheasant's  nest 
and  informs  the  keeper  and  receives  some  slight  reward. 
If  he  "keeps  his  eyes  open"  and  shows  himself  anxious 
at  all  times  to  serve  the  keeper  he  will  sometimes  get  a 
rabbit  for  his  Sunday  dinner. 

This  is  not  a  sufificlent  return  for  the  freedom  to  walk 
on  the  land  and  in  woods,  which  the  villager  possessed 


THE    SHEPHERD    ON    FOXES      107 

formerly,  even  in  his  worst  days  of  his  oppression,  a 
liberty  which  has  now  been  taken  from  him.  The  keeper 
is  there  now  to  prevent  him;  he  was  there  before,  and 
from  of  old,  but  the  pheasant  was  not  yet  a  sacred  bird, 
and  it  didn't  matter  that  a  man  walked  on  the  turf  or 
picked  up  a  few  fallen  sticks  in  a  wood.  The  keeper  is 
there  to  tell  him  to  keep  to  the  road  and  sometimes  to  ask 
him,  even  when  he  is  on  the  road,  what  is  he  looking  over 
the  hedge  for.     He  slinks  obediently  away;  he  is  only  a 


'^*"SS^£?^ 


DOSCOMBE     an  i«    BOURNE 


poor  labourer  with  his  living  to  get,  and  he  cannot  afford 
to  offend  the  man  who  stands  between  him  and  the  lord 
and  the  lord's  tenant.  And  he  is  inarticulate;  but  the 
insolence  and  injustice  rankle  in  his  heart,  for  he  is  not 
altogether  a  helot  in  soul ;  and  the  result  is  that  the  sedi- 
tion-mongers, the  Socialists,  the  furious  denouncers  of  all 
landlords,  who  are  now  quartering  the  country,  and  whose 
vans  I  meet  in  the  remotest  villages,  are  listened  to,  and 
their  words — wild  and  whirling  words  they  may  be — are 
sinking  into  the  hearts  of  the  agricultural  labourers  of 
the  new  generation. 

To  return  to  foxes  and  gamekeepers.    There  are  other 


108  A   SHEPHERD'S   LIFE 

estates  where  the  fiction  of  fox-preserving  is  kept  up 
no  longer,  where  it  is  notorious  that  the  landlord  is 
devoted  exclusively  to  the  gun  and  to  pheasant-breeding. 
On  one  of  the  big  estates  I  am  familiar  with  in  Wiltshire 
the  keepers  openly  say  they  will  not  suffer  a  fox,  and 
every  villager  knows  it  and  will  give  information  of  a 
fox  to  the  keepers,  and  looks  to  be  rewarded  with  a 
rabbit.  All  this  is  undoubtedly  known  to  the  lord  of  the 
manor;  his  servants  are  only  carrying  out  his  own  wishes, 
although  he  still  subscribes  to  the  hunt  and  occasionally 
attends  the  meet.  The  entire  hunt  may  unite  in  cursing 
him,  but  they  must  do  so  below  their  breath;  it  would 
have  a  disastrous  effect  to  spread  it  abroad  that  he  is 
a  persecutor  of  foxes. 

Caleb  disliked  foxes,  too,  but  not  to  the  extent  of 
killing  them.  He  did  once  actually  kill  one,  when  a 
young  under-shepherd,  but  it  was  accident  rather  than 
intention. 

One  day  he  found  a  small  gap  in  a  hedge,  which  had 
been  made  or  was  being  used  by  a  hare,  and,  thinking 
to  take  it,  he  set  a  trap  at  the  spot,  tying  it  securely  to 
a  root  and  covering  it  over  with  dead  leaves.  On  going 
to  the  place  the  next  morning  he  could  see  nothing  until 
his  feet  were  on  the  very  edge  of  the  ditch,  when  with 
startling  suddenness  a  big  dog  fox  sprang  up  at  him 
with  a  savage  snarl.  It  was  caught  by  a  hind-leg,  and 
had  been  lying  concealed  among  the  dead  leaves  close 
under  the  bank.  Caleb,  angered  at  finding  a  fox  when 
he  had  looked  for  a  hare,  and  at  the  attack  the  creature 
had  made  on  him,  dealt  it  a  blow  on  the  head  with  his 
heavy  stick — just  one  blow  given  on  the  impulse  of  the 
moment,  but  it  killed  the  fox !    He  felt  very  bad  at  what 


THE    SHEPHERD    ON    FOXES      109 

he  had  done  and  began  to  think  of  consequences.  He 
took  it  from  the  trap  and  hid  it  away  under  the  dead 
leaves  beneath  the  hedge  some  yards  from  the  gap,  and 
then  went  to  his  work.  During  the  day  one  of  the  farm 
hands  went  out  to  speak  to  him.  He  was  a  small,  quiet 
old  man,  a  discreet  friend,  and  Caleb  confided  to  him 
what  he  had  done.  "Leave  it  to  me,"  said  his  old  friend, 
and  went  back  to  the  farm.  In  the  afternoon  Caleb  was 
standing  on  the  top  of  the  down  looking  towards  the 
village,  when  he  spied  at  a  great  distance  the  old  man 
coming  out  to  the  hills,  and  by  and  by  he  could  make  out 
that  he  had  a  sack  on  his  back  and  a  spade  in  his  hand. 
When  half-way  up  the  side  of  the  hill  he  put  his  burden 
down  and  set  to  work  digging  a  deep  pit.  Into  this  he 
put  the  dead  fox,  and  threw  in  and  trod  down  the  earth, 
then  carefully  put  back  the  turf  in  its  place,  then,  his 
task  done,  shouldered  the  spade  and  departed.  Caleb 
felt  greatly  relieved,  for  now  the  fox  was  buried  out  on 
the  downs,  and  no  one  would  ever  know  that  he  had 
wickedly  killed  it. 

Subsequently  he  had  other  foxes  caught  in  traps  set 
for  hares,  but  was  always  able  to  release  them.  About 
one  he  had  the  following  story.  The  dog  he  had  at  that 
time,  named  Monk,  hated  foxes  as  Jack  hated  adders,  and 
would  hunt  them  savagely  whenever  he  got  a  chance. 
One  morning  Caleb  visited  a  trap  he  had  set  in  a  gap 
in  a  hedge  and  found  a  fox  in  it.  The  fox  jumped  up, 
snarling  and  displaying  his  teeth,  ready  to  fight  for  dear 
life,  and  it  was  hard  to  restrain  Monk  from  flying  at 
him.  So  excited  was  he  that  only  when  his  master 
threatened  him  with  his  crook  did  he  draw  back  and, 
sitting  on  his  haunches,  left  him  to  deal  with  the  difficult 


no  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

business  in  his  own  way.  The  difficulty  was  to  open 
the  steel  trap  without  putting  himself  in  the  way  of  a 
bito  from  those  "tarrable  sharp  teeth."  After  a  good 
deal  of  manoeuvring  he  managed  to  set  the  butt  end 
of  his  crook  on  the  handle  of  the  gin,  and  forcing  it 
down  until  the  iron  teeth  relaxed  their  grip,  the  fox 
pulled  his  foot  out,  and  darting  away  along  the  hedge 
side  vanished  into  the  adjoining  copse.  Away  went 
Monk  after  him,  in  spite  of  his  master's  angry  com- 
mands to  him  to  come  back,  and  fox  and  dog  disappeared 
almost  together  among  the  trees.  Sounds  of  yelping  and 
of  crashing  through  the  undergrowth  came  back  fainter 
and  fainter,  and  then  there  was  silence.  Caleb  waited 
at  the  spot  full  twenty  minutes  before  the  disobedient 
dog  came  back,  looking  very  pleased.  He  had  probably 
succeeded  in  overtaking  and  killing  his  enemy. 

About  that  same  Monk  a  sad  story  will  have  to  be 
told  in  another  chapter. 

When  speaking  of  foxes  Caleb  aways  maintained  that 
in  his  part  of  the  country  there  were  two  sorts:  one  small 
and  very  red,  the  larger  one  of  a  lighter  colour  with 
some  grey  in  it.  And  it  is  possible  that  the  hill  foxes 
differed  somewhat  in  size  and  colour  from  those  of  the 
lower  country.  He  related  that  one  year  two  vixens 
littered  at  one  spot,  a  deep  bottom  among  the  downs,  so 
near  together  that  when  the  cubs  were  big  enough  to 
come  out  they  mixed  and  played  in  company;  the  vixens 
happened  to  be  of  the  different  sorts,  and  the  difference 
in  colour  appeared  in  the  little  ones  as  well. 

Caleb  was  so  taken  with  the  pretty  sight  of  all  these 
little  foxes,  neighbours  and  playmates,  that  he  went  even- 
ing after  evening  to  sit  for  an  hour  or  longer  watching 


THE    SHEPHERD    ON    FOXES      111 

them.  One  thing  he  witnessed  which  will  perhaps  be 
disbelieved  by  those  who  have  not  closely  observed  ani- 
mals for  themselves,  and  who  still  hold  to  the  fable  that 
all  wild  creatures  are  born  with  an  inherited  and  instinc- 
tive knowledge  and  dread  of  their  enemies.  Rabbits 
swarmed  at  that  spot,  and  he  observed  that  when  the  old 
foxes  were  not  about,  the  young,   half -grown  rabbits 


HI'IIDtE  /}Nf» 


would  freely  mix  and  play  with  the  little  foxes.  He  was  so 
surprised  at  this,  never  having  heard  of  such  a  thing, 
that  he  told  his  master  of  it,  and  the  farmer  went  with 
him  on  a  moonlight  night  and  the  two  sat  for  a  long  time 
together,  and  saw  rabbits  and  foxes  playing,  pursuing 
one  another  round  and  round,  the  rabbits  when  pursued 
often  turning  very  suddenly  and  jumping  clean  over  their 
pursuer. 

The  rabbits  at  this  place  belonged  to  the  tenant,  and 


112  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

the  farmer,  after  enjoying  the  sight  of  the  little  ones 
playing  together,  determined  to  get  rid  of  the  foxes  in 
the  usual  way  by  exploding  a  small  quantity  of  gun- 
powder in  the  burrows.  Four  old  foxes  with  nine  cubs 
were  too  many  for  him  to  have.  The  powder  was  duly 
burned,  and  the  very  next  daj'  the  foxes  had  vanished. 

In  Berkshire  I  once  met  with  that  rare  being,  an  intel- 
ligent gamekeeper  who  took  an  interest  in  wild  animals 
and  knew  from  observation  a  great  deal  about  their 
habits.  During  an  after-supper  talk,  kept  up  till  past 
midnight,  we  discussed  the  subject  of  strange,  erratic 
actions  in  animals,  which  in  some  cases  appear  contrary 
to  their  own  natures.  He  gave  an  instance  of  such  be- 
haviour in  a  fox  that  had  its  earth  at  a  spot  on  the  border 
of  a  wood  where  rabbits  were  abundant.  One  evening 
he  was  at  this  spot,  standing  among  the  trees  and  watch- 
ing a  number  of  rabbits  feeding  and  gambolling  on  the 
green  turf,  when  the  fox  came  trotting  by  and  the  rabbits 
paid  no  attention.  Suddenly  he  stopped  and  made  a 
dart  at  a  rabbit;  the  rabbit  ran  from  him  a  distance  of 
twenty  to  thirty  yards,  then  suddenly  turning  round 
went  for  the  fox  and  chased  it  back  some  distance,  after 
which  the  fox  again  chased  the  rabbit,  and  so  they  went 
on,  turn  and  turn  about,  half  a  dozen  times.  It  was 
evident,  he  said,  that  the  fox  had  no  wish  to  catch  and 
kill  a  rabbit,  that  it  was  nothing  but  play  on  his  part, 
and  that  the  rabbits  responded  in  the  same  spirit,  know- 
ing that  there  was  nothing  to  fear. 

Another  instance  of  this  playful  spirit  of  the  fox  with 
an  enemy,  which  I  heard  recently,  is  of  a  gentleman  who 
was  out  with  his  dog,  a  fox-terrier,  for  an  evening  walk 
in  some  woods  near  his  house.     On  his  way  back  he 


THE    SHEPHERD    ON    FOXES      113 

discovered  on  coming  out  of  the  woods  that  a  fox  was 
following  him,  at  a  distance  of  about  forty  yards.  When 
he  stood  still  the  fox  sat  down  and  watched  the  dog. 
The  dog  appeared  indifferent  to  its  presence  until  his 
master  ordered  him  to  go  for  the  fox,  whereupon  he 
charged  him  and  drove  him  back  to  the  edge  of  the  wood, 
but  at  that  point  the  fox  turned  and  chased  the  dog  right 
back  to  its  master,  then  once  more  sat  down  and  appeared 
very  much  at  his  ease.  Again  the  dog  was  encouraged 
to  go  for  him  and  hunted  him  again  back  to  the  wood, 
and  was  then  in  turn  chased  back  to  its  master.  After 
several  repetitions  of  this  performance,  the  gentleman 
went  home,  the  fox  still  following,  and  on  going  in  closed 
the  gate  behind  him,  leaving  the  fox  outside,  sitting  in 
the  road  as  if  waiting  for  him  to  come  out  again  to 
have  some  more  fun. 

This  incident  serves  to  remind  me  of  an  experience 
I  had  one  evening  in  King's  Copse,  an  immense  wood 
of  oak  and  pine  in  the  New  Forest  near  Exbury.  It  was 
growing  dark  when  I  heard  on  or  close  to  the  ground, 
some  twenty  to  thirty  yards  before  me,  a  low,  wailing 
cry,  resembling  the  hunger-cry  of  the  young,  long-eared 
owl.  I  began  cautiously  advancing,  trying  to  see  it,  but 
as  I  advanced  the  cry  receded,  as  if  the  bird  was  flitting 
from  me.  Now,  just  after  I  had  begun  following  the 
sound,  a  fox  uttered  his  sudden,  startling  loud  scream 
about  forty  yards  away  on  my  right  hand,  and  the  next 
moment  a  second  fox  screamed  on  my  left,  and  from 
that  time  I  was  accompanied,  or  shadowed,  by  the  two 
foxes,  always  keeping  abreast  of  me,  always  at  the  same 
distance,  one  screaming  and  the  other  replying  about 
every  half  minute.     The  distressful  bird-sound  ceased. 


114  A   SHEPHERD'S   LIFE 

and  I  turned  and  went  off  in  another  direction,  to  get 
out  of  the  wood  on  the  side  nearest  the  place  where  I 
was  staying,  the  foxes  keeping  with  me  until  I  was  out. 

What  moved  them  to  act  in  such  a  way  is  a  mystery, 
but  it  was  perhaps  play  to  them. 

Another  curious  instance  of  foxes  playing  was  related 
to  me  by  a  gentleman  at  the  little  village  of  Inkpen,  near 
the  Beacon,  in  Berkshire.  He  told  me  that  when  it  hap- 
pened, a  good  many  years  ago,  he  sent  an  account  of  it 
to  the  "Field."  His  game-keeper  took  him  one  day  "to 
see  a  strange  thing,"  to  a  spot  in  the  woods  where  a  fox 
had  a  litter  of  four  cubs,  near  a  long,  smooth,  green 
slope.  A  little  distance  from  the  edge  of  the  slope  three 
round  swedes  were  lying  on  the  turf.  "How  do  you 
think  these  swedes  came  here?"  said  the  keeper,  and  then 
proceeded  to  say  that  the  old  fox  must  have  brought 
them  there  from  the  field  a  long  distance  away,  for  her 
cubs  to  play  with.  He  had  watched  them  of  an  evening, 
and  wanted  his  master  to  come  and  see  too.  Accordingly 
they  went  in  the  evening,  and  hiding  themselves  among 
the  bushes  near  waited  till  the  young  foxes  came  out  and 
began  rolling  the  swedes  about  and  jumping  at  and 
tumbling  over  them.  By  and  by  one  rolled  down  the 
slope,  and  the  young  foxes  went  after  it  all  the  way 
down,  and  then,  when  they  had  worried  it  sufficiently, 
they  returned  to  the  top  and  played  with  another  swede 
until  that  was  rolled  down,  then  with  the  third  one  in 
the  same  way.  Every  morning,  the  keeper  said,  the 
swedes  were  found  back  on  top  of  the  ground,  and  he 
had  no  doubt  that  they  were  taken  up  by  the  old  fox 
again  and  left  there  for  her  cubs  to  play  with. 

Caleb  was  not   so  eager  after  rabbits  as   Shepherd 


THE    SHEPHERD   ON    FOXES      115 

Gathergood,  but  he  disliked  the  fox  for  another  reason. 
He  considered  that  the  hunted  fox  was  a  great  danger 
to  sheep  when  the  ewes  were  heavy  with  lambs  and  when 
the  chase  brought  the  animal  near  if  not  right  into  the 
flock.  He  had  one  dreadful  memory  of  a  hunted  fox 
trying  to  lose  itself  in  his  flock  of  heavy-sided  ewes  and 
the  hounds  following  it  and  driving  the  poor  sheep  mad 
with  terror.  The  result  was  that  a  large  number  of 
lambs  were  cast  before  their  time  and  many  others  were 
poor,  sickly  things;  many  of  the  sheep  also  suffered  in 
health.  He  had  no  extra  money  from  the  lambs  that 
year.  He  received  but  a  shilling  (half  a  crown  is  often 
paid  now)  for  every  lamb  above  the  number  of  ewes, 
and  as  a  rule  received  from  three  to  six  pounds  a  year 
from  this  source. 


CHAPTER   X 
Bird  Life  on  the  Downs 

Great  bustard  —  Stone  curlew  —  Big  hawks  —  .Former 
abundance  of  the  raven — Dogs  fed  on  carrion — 
Ravens  fighting — Ravens'  breeding-places  in  Wilts 
— Great  Ridge  Wood  ravens — Field-fare  breeding  in 
Wilts — Pewit — Mistle-thrush — Magpie  and  turtle- 
dove— Gamekeepers  and  magpies — Rooks  and  farm- 
ers— Starling,  the  shepherd's  favourite  bird — Spar- 
rowhawk  and  "brown  thrush" 


Wiltshire,  like  other  places  in  England,  has  long  been 
deprived  of  its  most  interesting  birds — the  species  that 
were  best  worth  preserving.  Its  great  bustard,  once  our 
greatest  bird — even  greater  than  the  golden  and  sea  eagles 
and  the  "giant  crane"  with  its  "trumpet  sound"  once  heard 
in  the  land — is  now  but  a  memory.  Or  a  place  name: 
Bustard  Inn,  no  longer  an  inn,  is  well  known  to  the 
many  thousands  who  now  go  to  the  mimic  wars  on  Salis- 
bury Plain ;  and  there  is  a  Trappist  monastery  in  a  village 
on  the  southernmost  border  of  the  county,  which  was 

116 


BIRD   LIFE   ON    THE    DOWNS     117 

once  called,  and  is  still  known  to  old  men,  as  "Bustard 
Farm."  All  that  Caleb  Bawcombe  knew  of  this  grandest 
bird  is  what  his  father  had  told  him;  and  Isaac  knew 
of  it  only  from  hearsay,  although  it  was  still  met  with 
in  South  Wilts  when  he  was  a  young  man. 

The  stone  curlew,  our  little  bustard  with  the  long 
wings,  big,  yellow  eyes,  and  wild  voice,  still  frequents 
the  uncultivated  downs,  unhappily  in  diminishing  num- 
bers. For  the  private  collector's  desire  to  possess  British- 
taken  birds'  eggs  does  not  diminish ;  I  doubt  if  more  than 
one  clutch  in  ten  escapes  the  searching  eyes  of  the  poor 
shepherds  and  labourers  who  are  hired  to  supply  the 
cabinets.  One  pair  haunted  a  flinty  spot  at  Winterboume 
Bishop  until  a  year  or  two  ago;  at  other  points  a  few 
miles  away  I  watched  other  pairs  during  the  summer  of 
1909,  but  in  every  instance  their  eggs  were  taken. 

The  larger  hawks  and  the  raven,  which  bred  in  all  the 
woods  and  forests  of  Wiltshire,  have,  of  course,  been 
extirpated  by  the  gamekeepers.  The  biggest  forest  in 
the  county  now  affords  no  refuge  to  any  hawk  above 
the  size  of  a  kestrel.  Savernake  is  extensive  enough, 
one  would  imagine,  for  condors  to  hide  in,  but  it  is  not 
so.  A  few  years  ago  a  buzzard  made  its  appearance  there 
— just  a  common  buzzard,  and  the  entire  surrounding 
population  went  mad  with  excitement  about  it,  and  every 
man  who  possessed  a  gun  flew  to  the  forest  to  join  in 
the  hunt  until  the  wretched  bird,  after  being  blazed  at 
for  two  or  three  days,  was  brought  down. 

I  heard  of  another  case  at  Fonthill  Abbey.  Nobody 
could  say  what  this  wandering  hawk  was — it  was  very 
big,  blue  above  with  a  white  breast  barred  with  black — 
a  "tarrable,"  fierce-looking  bird  with  fierce,  yellow  eyes. 


118  A   SHEPHERD'S   LIFE 

All  the  gamekeepers  and  several  other  men  with  guns 
were  in  hot  pursuit  of  it  for  several  days,  until  some  one 
fatally  wounded  it,  but  it  could  not  be  found  where  it 
was  supposed  to  have  fallen.  A  fortnight  later  its  carcass 
was  discovered  by  an  old  shepherd,  who  told  me  the 
story.  It  was  not  in  a  fit  state  to  be  preserved,  but  he 
described  it  to  me,  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  it  was  a 
goshawk. 

The  raven  survived  longer,  and  the  Shepherd  Baw- 
combe  talks  about  its  abundance  when  he  was  a  boy, 
seventy  or  more  years  ago.  His  way  of  accounting  for 
its  numbers  at  that  time  and  its  subsequent,  somewhat 
rapid  disappearance  greatly  interested  me. 

We  have  seen  his  account  of  deer-stealing  by  the  vil- 
lagers in  those  brave,  old,  starvation  days  when  Lord 
Rivers  owned  the  deer  and  hunting  rights  over  a  large 
part  of  Wiltshire,  extending  from  Cranborne  Chase  to 
Salisbury,  and  when  even  so  righteous  a  man  as  Isaac 
Bawcombe  was  tempted  by  hunger  to  take  an  occasional 
deer,  discovered  out  of  bounds.  At  that  time,  Caleb  said, 
a  good  many  dogs  used  for  hunting  the  deer  were  kept 
a  few  miles  from  Winterbourne  Bishop  and  were  fed 
by  the  keepers  in  a  very  primitive  manner.  Old,  worn- 
out  horses  were  bought  and  slaughtered  for  the  dogs. 
A  horse  would  be  killed  and  stripped  of  his  hide  some- 
where away  in  the  woods,  and  left  for  the  hounds  to 
batten  on  its  flesh,  tearing  at  and  fighting  over  it  like  so 
many  jackals.  When  only  partially  consumed  the  carcass 
would  become  putrid ;  then  another  horse  would  be  killed 
and  skinned  at  another  spot  perhaps  a  mile  away,  and 
the  pack  would  start  feeding  afresh  there.  The  result 
of  so  much  carrion  lying  about  was  that  ravens  were 


BIRD    LIFE    ON    THE    DOWNS     119 

attracted  in  numbers  to  the  place  and  were  so  numerous 
as  to  be  seen  in  scores  together.  Later,  when  the  deer- 
hunting  sport  decHned  in  the  neighbourhood,  and  dogs 
were  no  longer  fed  on  carrion,  the  birds  decreased  year 
by  year,  and  when  Caleb  was  a  boy  of  nine  or  ten  their 
former  great  abundance  was  but  a  memory.  But  he  re- 
members that  they  were  still  fairly  common,  and  he  had 
much  to  say  about  the  old  belief  that  the  raven  "smells 
death,"  and  when  seen  hovering  over  a  flock,  uttering  its 
croak,  it  is  a  sure  sign  that  a  sheep  is  in  a  bad  way  and 
will  shortly  die. 

One  of  his  recollections  of  the  bird  may  be  given  here. 
It  was  one  of  those  things  seen  in  boyhood  which  had 
very  deeply  impressed  him.  One  fine  day  he  was  on 
the  down  with  an  elder  brother,  when  they  heard  the 
familiar  croak  and  spied  three  birds  at  a  distance  engaged 
in  a  fight  in  the  air.  Two  of  the  birds  were  in  pursuit 
of  the  third,  and  rose  alternately  to  rush  upon  and  strike 
at  their  victim  from  above.  They  were  coming  down 
from  a  considerable  height,  and  at  last  were  directly  over 
the  boys,  not  more  than  forty  or  fifty  feet  from  the 
ground;  and  the  youngsters  were  amazed  at  their  fury, 
the  loud,  rushing  sound  of  their  wings,  as  of  a  torrent, 
and  of  their  deep,  hoarse  croaks  and  savage,  barking 
cries.  Then  they  began  to  rise  again,  the  hunted  bird 
trying  to  keep  above  his  enemies,  they  in  their  turn  striv- 
ing to  rise  higher  still  so  as  to  rush  down  upon  him  from 
overhead;  and  in  this  way  they  towered  higher  and 
higher,  their  barking  cries  coming  fainter  and  fainter 
back  to  earth,  until  the  boys,  not  to  lose  sight  of  them, 
cast  themselves  down  flat  on  their  backs,  and,  continuing 
to  gaze  up,  saw  them  at  last  no  bigger  than  three  "leetle 


120  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

blackbirds."  Then  they  vanished,  but  the  boys,  still 
lying  on  their  backs,  kept  their  eyes  fixed  on  the  same 
spot,  and  by  and  by  first  one  black  speck  reappeared,  then 
a  second,  and  they  soon  saw  that  two  birds  were  swiftly 
coming  down  to  earth.  They  fell  swiftly  and  silently, 
and  finally  pitched  upon  the  down  not  more  than  a  couple 
of  hundred  yards  from  the  boys.  The  hunted  bird  had 
evidently  succeeded  in  throwing  them  off  and  escaping. 
Probably  it  was  one  of  their  own  young,  for  the  ravens' 
habit  is  when  their  young  are  fully  grown  to  hunt  them 
out  of  the  neighbourhood,  or,  when  they  cannot  drive 
them  off,  to  kill  them. 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  carrion  did  attract  ravens 
in  numbers  to  this  part  of  Wihshire,  but  it  is  a  fact  that 
up  to  that  date — about  1830 — the  bird  had  many  well- 
known,  old  breeding-places  in  the  county.  The  Rev.  A. 
C.  Smith,  in  his  "Birds  of  Wiltshire,"  names  twenty- 
three  breeding-places,  no  fewer  than  nine  of  them  on 
Salisbury  Plain ;  but  at  the  date  of  the  publication  of  his 
work,  1887,  only  three  of  all  these  nesting-places  were 
still  in  use:  South  Tidworth,  Wilton  Park,  and  Compton 
Park,  Compton  Chamberlain.  Doubtless  there  were  other 
ancient  breeding-places  which  the  author  had  not  heard 
of:  one  was  at  the  Great  Ridge  Wood,  overlooking  the 
Wylye  valley,  where  ravens  bred  down  to  about  thirty- 
five  or  forty  years  ago.  I  have  found  many  old  men  in 
that  neighbourhood  who  remember  the  birds,  and  they 
tell  that  the  raven  tree  was  a  great  oak  which  was  cut 
down  about  sixty  years  ago,  after  which  the  birds  built 
their  nest  in  another  tree  not  far  away.  A  London  friend 
of  mine,  who  was  born  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Great 
Ridge  Wood,  remembers  the  ravens  as  one  of  the  com- 


BIRD    LIFE   ON    THE    DOWNS     121 


mon  sights  of  the  place  when  he  was  a  boy.  He  tells  of 
an  unlucky  farmer  in  those  parts  whose  sheep  fell  sick 
and  died  in  numbers,  year  after  year,  bringing  him  down 
to  the  brink  of  ruin,  and  how  his  old  head-shepherd 
would  say,  solemnly  shaking  his  head,  "  'Tis  not  strange 
— master,  he  shot  a  raven." 

There  was  no  ravens'  breeding-place  very  near  Winter- 
bourne  Bishop.    Caleb  had  "never  beared  tell  of  a  nestie" ; 


but  he  had  once  seen  the  nest  of  another  species  which 
is  supposed  never  to  breed  in  this  country.  He  was  a 
small  boy  at  the  time,  when  one  day  an  old  shepherd  of 
the  place  going  out  from  the  village  saw  Caleb,  and  calling 
to  him  said,  "You're  the  boy  that  likes  birds;  if  you'll 
come  with  me,  I'll  show  'ee  what  no  man  ever  seed  afore" ; 
and  Caleb,  fired  with  curiosity,  followed  him  away  to 
a  distance  from  home,  out  from  the  downs,  into  the 
woods  and  to  a  place  where  he  had  never  been,  where 
there  wa.s  bracken  and  heath  with  birch-  and  thorn-trees 
scattered  about.     On  cautiously  approaching  a  clump  of 


122  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

birches  they  saw  a  big,  thrush-Hke  bird  fly  out  of  a  large 
nest  about  ten  feet  from  the  ground,  and  settle  on  a  tree 
close  by,  where  it  was  joined  by  its  mate.  The  old  man 
pointed  out  that  it  was  a  felt  or  fieldfare,  a  thrush  nearly 
as  big  as  the  mistle-thrush  but  different  in  colour,  and 
he  said  that  it  was  a  bird  that  came  to  England  in  flocks 
in  winter  from  no  man  knows  where,  far  off  in  the  north, 
and  always  went  away  before  breeding-time.  This  was 
the  only  felt  he  had  ever  seen  breeding  in  this  country, 
and  he  "didn't  believe  that  no  man  had  ever  seed  such  a 
thing  before."  He  would  not  climb  the  tree  to  see  the 
eggs,  or  even  go  very  near  it,  for  fear  of  disturbing  the 
birds. 

This  man,  Caleb  said,  was  a  great  one  for  birds:  he 
knew  them  all,  but  seldom  said  anything  about  them; 
he  watched  and  found  out  a  good  deal  about  them  just 
for  his  private  pleasure. 

The  characteristic  species  of  this  part  of  the  down 
country,  comprising  the  parish  of  Winterbourne  Bishop, 
are  the  pewit,  magpie,  turtledove,  mistle-thrush,  and 
starling.  The  pewit  is  universal  on  the  hills,  but  will 
inevitably  be  driven  away  from  all  that  portion  of 
Salisbury  Plain  used  for  military  purposes.  The  mistle- 
thrush  becomes  common  in  summer  after  its  early  breed- 
ing season  is  ended,  when  the  birds  in  small  flocks  resort 
to  the  downs,  where  they  continue  until  cold  weather 
drives  them  away  to  the  shelter  of  the  wooded,  low 
country. 

In  this  neighbourhood  there  are  thickets  of  thorn, 
holly,  bramble,  and  birch  growing  over  hundreds  of 
acres  of  down,  and  here  the  hill-magpie,  as  it  Is  called, 
has  its  chief  breeding-ground,  and  is  so  common  that 


BIRD    LIFE    ON    THE    DOWNS     123 

you  can  always  get  a  sight  of  at  least  twenty  birds  in 
an  afternoon's  walk.  Here,  too,  is  the  metropolis  of 
the  turtledove,  and  the  low  sound  of  its  crooning  is  heard 
all  day  in  summer,  the  other  most  common  sound  being 
that  of  magpies — their  subdued,  conversational  chatter 
and  their  solo-singing,  the  chant  or  call  which  a  bird  will 
go  on  repeating  for  a  hundred  times.  The  wonder  is 
how  the  doves  succeed  in  such  a  place  in  hatching  any 
couple  of  chalk-white  eggs,  placed  on  a  small  platform 
of  sticks,  or  of  rearing  any  pair  of  young,  conspicuous 
in  their  blue  skins  and  bright  yellow  down! 

The  keepers  tell  me  they  get  even  with  these  kill-birds 
later  in  the  year,  when  they  take  to  roosting  in  the  woods, 
a  mile  away  in  the  valley.  The  birds  are  waited  for  at 
some  point  where  they  are  accustomed  to  slip  in  at  dark, 
and  one  keeper  told  me  that  on  one  evening  alone  assisted 
by  a  friend  he  had  succeeded  in  shooting  thirty  birds. 

On  Winterbourne  Bishop  Down  and  round  the  village 
the  magpies  are  not  persecuted,  probably  because  the 
gamekeepers,  the  professional  bird-killers,  have  lost  heart 
in  this  place.  It  is  a  curious  and  rather  pretty  story. 
There  is  no  squire,  as  we  have  seen;  the  farmers  have 
the  rabbits,  and  for  game  the  shooting  is  let,  or  to  let, 
by  some  one  who  claims  to  be  lord  of  the  manor,  who 
lives  at  a  distance  or  abroad.  At  all  events  he  is  not 
known  personally  to  the  people,  and  all  they  know  about 
the  overlordship  is  that,  whereas  in  years  gone  by  every 
villager  had  certain  rights  in  the  down — to  cut  furze  and 
keep  a  cow,  or  pony,  or  donkey,  or  half  a  dozen  sheep 
or  goats — now  they  have  none;  but  how  and  why  and 
when  these  rights  were  lost  nobody  knows.  Naturally 
there  is  no  sympathy  between  the  villagers  and  the  keepers 


124  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

sent  from  a  distance  to  protect  the  game,  so  that  the 
shooting  may  be  let  to  some  other  stranger.  On  the 
contrary,  they  religiously  destroy  every  nest  they  can 
find,  with  the  result  that  there  are  too  few  birds  for  any- 
one to  take  the  shooting,  and  it  remains  year  after  year 
unlet. 

This  unsettled  state  of  things  is  all  to  the  advantage 
of  the  black  and  white  bird  with  the  ornamental  tail,  and 
he  flourishes  accordingly  and  builds  his  big,  thorny  nests 
in  the  roadside  trees  about  the  village. 

The  one  big  bird  on  these  downs,  as  in  so  many  other 
places  in  England,  is  the  rook,  and  let  us  humbly  thank 
the  gods  who  own  this  green  earth  and  all  the  creatures 
which  inhabit  it  that  they  have  in  their  goodness  left  us 
this  one.  For  it  is  something  to  have  a  rook,  although 
he  is  not  a  great  bird  compared  with  the  great  ones  lost 
— bustard  and  kite  and  raven  and  goshawk,  and  many 
others.  His  abundance  on  the  cultivated  downs  is  rather 
strange  when  one  remembers  the  outcry  made  against 
him  in  some  parts  on  account  of  his  injurious  habits;  but 
here  It  appears  the  sentiment  in  his  favour  is  just  as 
strong  in  the  farmer,  or  in  a  good  many  farmers,  as  in 
the  great  landlord.  The  biggest  rookery  I  know  on 
Salisbury  Plain  is  at  a  farm-house  where  the  farmer 
owns  the  land  himself  and  cultivates  about  nine  hundred 
acres.  One  would  imagine  that  he  would  keep  his  rooks 
down  in  these  days  when  a  boy  cannot  be  hired  to  scare 
the  birds  from  the  crops. 

One  day,  near  West  Knoyle,  I  came  upon  a  vast  com- 
pany of  rooks  busily  engaged  on  a  ploughed  field  where 
everything  short  of  placing  a  bird-scarer  on  the  ground 
had  been  done  to  keep  the  birds  off.     A  score  of  rooks 


BIRD    LIFE    ON    THE    DOWNS     12.b 

had  been  shot  and  suspended  to  long  sticks  planted  about 
the  field,  and  there  were  three  formidable-looking  men 
of  straw  and  rags  with  hats  on  their  heads  and  wooden 
guns  under  their  arms.  But  the  rooks  were  there  all 
the  same ;  I  counted  seven  at  one  spot,  prodding  the  earth 
close  to  the  feet  of  one  of  the  scarecrows,  I  went  into 
the  field  to  see  what  they  were  doing,  and  found  that 
it  was  sown  with  vetches,  just  beginning  to  come  up, 
and  the  birds  were  digging  the  seed  up. 

Three  months  later,  near  the  same  spot,  on  Mere  Down, 
I  found  these  birds  feasting  on  the  corn,  when  it  had 
been  long  cut  but  could  not  be  carried  on  account  of  the 
wet  weather.  It  was  a  large  field  of  fifty  to  sixty  acres, 
and  as  I  walked  by  it  the  birds  came  flying  leisurely  over 
my  head  to  settle  with  loud  cawings  on  the  stooks.  It 
was  a  magnificent  sight — the  great,  blue-black  bird-forms 
on  the  golden  wheat,  an  animated  group  of  three  or  four 
to  half  a  dozen  on  every  stook,  while  others  walked  about 
the  ground  to  pick  up  the  scattered  grain,  and  others  were 
flying  over  them,  for  just  then  the  sun  was  shining  on 
the  field  and  beyond  It  the  sky  was  blue.  Never  had  I 
witnessed  birds  so  manifestly  rejoicing  at  their  good 
fortune,  with  happy,  loud  caw-caw.  Or  rather  haw-haw ! 
what  a  harvest,  what  abundance !  was  there  ever  a  more 
perfect  August  and  September!  Rain,  rain,  by  night 
and  in  the  morning ;  then  sun  and  wind  to  dry  our  feathers 
and  make  us  glad,  but  never  enough  to  dry  the  corn  to 
enable  them  to  carry  it  and  build  it  up  in  stacks  where 
it  would  be  so  much  harder  to  get  at.  Could  anything 
be  better ! 

But  the  commonest  bird,  the  one  which  vastly  out- 
numbers all  the  others  I  have  named  together,   is  the 


126  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

starling.  It  was  Caleb  Bawcombe's  favourite  bird,  and 
I  believe  it  is  regarded  with  peculiar  affection  by  all 
shepherds  on  the  downs  on  account  of  its  constant  asso- 
ciation with  sheep  in  the  pasture.  The  dog,  the  sheep, 
and  the  crowd  of  starlings — these  are  the  lonely  man's 
companions  during  his  long  days  on  the  hills  from  April 
or  May  to  November.  And  what  a  wise  bird  he  is,  and 
how  well  he  knows  his  friends  and  his  enemies !  There 
was  nothing  more  beautiful  to  see,  Caleb  would  say,  than 
the  behaviour  of  a  flock  of  starhngs  when  a  hawk  was 
about.  If  it  was  a  kestrel  they  took  little  or  no  notice 
of  it,  but  if  a  sparrowhawk  made  its  appearance,  instantly 
the  crowd  of  birds  could  be  seen  flying  at  furious  speed 
towards  the  nearest  flock  of  sheep,  and  down  into  the 
flock  they  would  fall  like  a  shower  of  stones  and  instantly 
disappear  from  sight.  There  they  would  remain  on  the 
ground,  among  the  legs  of  the  grazing  sheep,  until  the 
hawk  had  gone  on  his  way  and  passed  out  of  sight. 

The  sparrowhawk's  victims  are  mostly  made  among 
the  young  birds  that  flock  together  in  summer  and  live 
apart  from  the  adults  during  the  summer  months  after 
the  breeding  season  is  over. 

When  I  find  a  dead  starling  on  the  downs  ranged  over 
by  sparrowhawks,  It  is  almost  always  a  young  bird — a 
"brown  thrush"  as  it  used  to  be  called  by  the  old  natural- 
ists. You  may  know  that  the  slayer  was  a  sparrowhawk 
by  the  appearance  of  the  bird,  its  body  untouched,  but 
the  flesh  picked  neatly  from  the  neck  and  the  head  gone. 
That  was  swallowed  whole,  after  the  beak  had  been  cut 
off.  You  will  find  the  beak  lying  by  the  side  of  the  body. 
In  summer-time,  when  birds  are  most  abundant,  after 
the  breeding  season,  the  sparrowhawk  is  a  fastidious 
feeder. 


>o^ 


VPTON    LOVELL    on  thj;  VATYE 


CHAPTER   XI 
Starlings  and  Sheep-Bells 

Starlings*  singing — Native  and  borrowed  sounds — Imi- 
tations of  sheep-bells — The  shepherd  on  sheep-bells 
— The  bells  for  pleasure,  not  use — A  dog  in  charge 
of  the  flock — Shepherd  calling  his  sheep — Richard 
Warner  of  Bath — Ploughmen  singing  to  their  oxen 
in  Cornwall — A  shepherd's  loud  singing 

The  subject  of  starlings  associating  with  sheep  has  served 
to  remind  me  of  something  I  have  often  thought  when 
listening  to  their  music.  It  happen*  that  I  am  writing 
this  chapter  in  a  small  village  on  Salisbury  Plain,  the 
time  being  mid-September,  1909,  and  that  just  outside 
my  door  there  is  a  group  of  old  elder-bushes  laden  just 
now  with  clusters  of  ripe  berries  on  which  the  starlings 
come  to  feed,  filling  the  room  all  day  with  that  never- 
ending  medley  of  sounds  which  is  their  song.  They  sing 
in  this  way  not  only  when  they  sing — that  is  to  say,  when 
they  make  a  serious  business  of  it,  standing  motionless 

127 


128  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

and  a-shlver  on  the  tiles,  wings  drooping  and  open  beak 
pointing  upwards,  but  also  when  they  are  feasting  on 
fruit — singing  and  talking  and  swallowing  elder-berries 
between  whiles  to  wet  their  whistles.  If  the  weather  is 
not  too  cold  you  will  hear  this  music  daily,  wet  or  dry, 
all  the  year  round.  We  may  say  that  of  all  singing  birds 
they  are  most  vocal,  yet  have  no  set  song.  I  doubt  if  they 
have  more  than  half  a  dozen  to  a  dozen  sounds  or  notes 
which  are  the  same  in  every  individual  and  their  very 
own.  One  of  them  is  a  clear,  soft,  musical  whistle, 
slightly  inflected;  another  a  kissing  sound,  usually  re- 
peated two  or  three  times  or  oftener,  a  somewhat  per- 
cussive smack;  still  another,  a  sharp,  prolonged  hissing 
or  sibilant  but  at  the  same  time  metallic  note,  compared 
by  some  one  to  the  sound  produced  by  milking  a  pow 
into  a  tin  pail — a  very  good  description.  There  are  other 
lesser  notes:  a  musical,  thrush-like  chirp,  repeated  slowly, 
and  sometimes  rapidly  till  it  runs  to  a  bubbling  sound; 
also  there  is  a  horny  sound,  which  is  perhaps  produced 
by  striking  upon  the  edges  of  the  lower  mandible  with 
those  of  the  upper.  But  it  is  quite  unlike  the  loud,  hard 
noise  made  by  the  stork;  the  poor  stork  being  a  dumb 
bird  has  made  a  sort  of  policeman's  rattle  of  his  huge 
beak.  These  sounds  do  not  follow  each  other ;  they  come 
from  time  to  time,  the  intervals  being  filled  up  with  others 
in  such  endless  variety,  each  bird  producing  its  own  notes, 
that  one  can  but  suppose  that  they  are  imitations.  We 
know,  in  fact,  that  the  starling  is  our  greatest  mimic, 
and  that  he  often  succeeds  in  recognizable  reproductions 
of  single  notes,  of  phrases,  and  occasionally  of  entire 
songs,  as,  for  instance,  that  of  the  blackbird.  But  in 
listening  to  him  we  are  conscious  of  his  imitations ;  even 


STARLINGS   AND    SHEEP-BELLS     129 

when  at  his  best  he  amuses  rather  than  delights — he  is 
not  like  the  mocking-bird.  His  common  starling  pipe 
cannot  produce  sounds  of  pure  and  beautiful  quality,  like 
the  blackbird's  "oboe-voice,"  to  quote  Davidson's  apt 
phrase;  he  emits  this  song  in  a  strangely  subdued  tone, 
producing  the  effect  of  a  blackbird  heard  singing  at  a 
considerable  distance.  And  so  with  innumerable  other 
notes,  calls,  and  songs — they  are  often  to  their  originals 
what  a  man's  voice  heard  on  a  telephone  is  to  his  natural 
voice.  He  succeeds  best,  as  a  rule,  in  imitations  of  the 
coarser,  metallic  sounds,  and  as  his  medley  abounds  in 
a  variety  of  little,  measured,  tinkling,  and  clinking  notes, 
as  of  tappings  on  a  metal  plate,  it  has  struck  me  at  times 
that  these  are  probably  borrowed  from  the  sheep-bells 
of  which  the  bird  hears  so  much  In  his  feeding-grounds. 
It  Is,  however,  not  necessary  to  suppose  that  every  star- 
ling gets  these  sounds  directly  from  the  bells;  the  birds 
undoubtedly  mimic  one  another,  as  Is  the  case  with 
mocking-birds,  and  the  young  might  easily  acquire  this 
part  of  their  song  language  from  the  old  birds  without 
visiting  the  flocks  in  the  pastures. 

The  sheep-bell.  In  Its  half-muffled  strokes,  as  of  a 
small  hammer  tapping  on  an  Iron  or  copper  plate,  is,  one 
would  imagine,  a  sound  well  within  the  starling's  range, 
easily  imitated,  therefore  specially  attractive  to  him. 

But — to  pass  to  another  subject — ^what  does  the  shep- 
herd himself  think  or  feel  about  it;  and  why  does  he 
have  bells  on  his  sheep? 

He  thinks  a  great  deal  of  his  bells.  He  pipes  not  like 
the  shepherd  of  fable  or  of  the  pastoral  poets,  nor  plays 
upon  any  musical  instrument,  and  seldom  sings,  or  even 
whistles — that  sorry  substitute  for  song;  he  loves  music 


130 


A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 


nevertheless,  and  gets  it  in  his  sheep-bells;  and  he  likes 
it  in  quantity.  "How  many  bells  have  you  got  on  your 
sheep — it  sounds  as  if  you  had  a  great  many?"  I  asked 
of  a  shepherd  the  other  day,  feeding  his  flock  near  Old 
Sarum,  and  he  replied,  "Just  forty,  and  I  wish  there  were 
eighty."  Twent3^-five  or  thirty  is  a  more  usual  number, 
but  only  because  of  their  cost,  for  the  shepherd  has  very 
little  money  for  bells  or  anything  else.     Another  told 


FILLING  THE  CEIBS. 


me  that  he  had  "only  thirty,"  but  he  intended  getting 
more.  The  sound  cheers  him ;  it  is  not  exactly  monoto- 
nous, owing  to  the  bells  being  of  various  sizes  and  also 
greatly  varying  in  thickness,  so  that  they  produce  different 
tones,  from  the  sharp  tinkle-tinkle  of  the  smallest  to  the 
sonorous  klonk-klonk  of  the  big,  copper  bell.  Then,  too, 
they  are  differently  agitated,  some  quietly  when  the  sheep 
are  grazing  with  heads  down,  others  rapidly  as  the  animal 
walks  or  trots  on ;  and  there  are  little  bursts  or  peals  when 
a  sheep  shakes  its  head,  all  together  producing  a  kind  of 


STARLINGS    AND    SHEEP-BELLS     131 

rude  harmony — a  music  which,  like  that  of  bagpipes  or 
of  chiming  church  bells,  heard  from  a  distance,  is  akin 
to  natural  music  and  accords  with  rural  scenes. 

As  to  use,  there  is  little  or  none.  A  shepherd  will 
sometimes  say,  when  questioned  on  the  subject,  that  the 
bells  tell  him  just  where  the  flock  is  or  in  which  direction 
they  are  travelling;  but  he  knows  better.  The  one  who 
is  not  afraid  to  confess  the  simple  truth  of  the  matter 
to  a  stranger  will  tell  you  that  he  does  not  need  the  bells 
to  tell  him  where  the  sheep  are  or  in  which  direction  they 
are  grazing.  His  eyes  are  good  enough  for  that.  The 
bells  are  for  his  solace  or  pleasure  alone.  It  may  be 
that  the  sheep  like  the  tinkling  too — it  is  his  belief  that 
they  do  like  it.  A  shepherd  said  to  me  a  few  days  ago: 
"It  is  lonesome  with  the  flock  on  the  downs;  more  so 
in  cold,  wet  weather,  when  you  perhaps  don't  see  a  person 
all  day — on  some  days  not  even  at  a  distance,  much  less 
to  speak  to.  The  bells  keep  us  from  feeling  it  too  much. 
We  know  what  we  have  them  for,  and  the  more  we  have 
the  better  we  like  it.    They  are  company  to  us." 

Even  in  fair  weather  he  seldom  has  anyone  to  speak 
to.  A  visit  from  an  idle  man  who  will  sit  down  and  have 
a  pipe  and  talk  with  him  is  a  day  to  be  long  remembered 
and  even  to  date  events  from.  "  'Twas  the  month — 
May,  June,  or  October — when  the  stranger  came  out  to 
the  down  and  talked  to  I." 

One  day,  in  September,  when  sauntermg  over  Mere 
Down,  one  of  the  most  extensive  and  loneliest-looking 
sheep-walks  in  South  Wilts — a  vast,  elevated  plain  or 
table-land,  a  portion  of  which  is  known  as  White  Sheet 
Hill — I  passed  three  flocks  of  sheep,  all  with  many  bells, 
and  noticed  that  each  flock  produced  a  distinctly  different 


132  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

sound  or  effect,  owing  doubtless  to  a  different  number 
of  big  and  little  bells  in  each;  and  it  struck  me  that  any 
shepherd  on  a  dark  night,  or  if  taken  blindfolded  over 
the  downs,  would  be  able  to  identify  his  own  flock  by 
the  sound.  At  the  last  of  the  three  flocks  a  curious  thing 
occurred.  There  was  no  shepherd  with  it  or  anywhere 
in  sight,  but  a  dog  was  in  charge;  I  found  him  lying 
apparently  asleep  in  a  hollow,  by  the  side  of  a  stick  and 
an  old  sack,  I  called  to  him,  but  instead  of  jumping  up 
and  coming  to  me,  as  he  would  have  done  if  his  master 
had  been  there,  he  only  raised  his  head,  looked  at  me, 
then  put  his  nose  down  on  his  paws  again.  I  am  on  duty 
— in  sole  charge — and  you  must  not  speak  to  me,  was 
what  he  said.  After  walking  a  little  distance  on,  I  spied 
the  shepherd  with  a  second  dog  at  his  heels,  coming  over 
the  down  straight  to  the  flock,  and  I  stayed  to  watch. 
When  still  over  a  hundred  yards  from  the  hollow  the 
dog  flew  ahead,  and  the  other  jumping  up  ran  to  meet 
him,  and  they  stood  together,  wagging  their  tails  as  if 
conversing.  When  the  shepherd  had  got  up  to  them 
he  stood  and  began  uttering  a  curious  call,  a  somewhat 
musical  cry  in  two  notes,  and  instantly  the  sheep,  now 
at  a  considerable  distance,  stopped  feeding  and  turned, 
then  all  together  began  running  towards  him,  and  when 
within  thirty  yards  stood  still,  massed  together,  and  all 
gazing  at  him.  He  then  uttered  a  different  call,  and  turn- 
ing walked  away,  the  dogs  keeping  with  him  and  the 
sheep  closely  following.  It  was  late  in  the  day,  and  he 
was  going  to  fold  them  down  at  the  foot  of  the  slope  in 
some  fields  half  a  mile  away. 

As  the  scene  I  had  witnessed  appeared  unusual  I  related 
it  to  the  very  next  shepherd  I  talked  with. 


STARLINGS    AND    SHEEP-BELLS     133 

"Oh,  there  was  nothing  in  that,"  he  said.  "Of  course 
the  dog  was  behind  the  flock." 

I  said,  "No,  the  peculiar  thing  was  that  both  dogs 
were  with  their  master,  and  the  flock  followed." 

"Well,  my  sheep  would  do  the  same,"  he  returned. 
"That  is,  they'll  do  it  if  they  know  there's  something 
good  for  them — something  they  like  in  the  fold.  They 
are  very  knowing."  And  other  shepherds  to  whom  I 
related  the  incident  said  pretty  much  the  same,  but  they 
apparently  did  not  quite  like  to  hear  that  any  shepherd 
could  control  his  sheep  with  his  voice  alone;  their  way 
of  receiving  the  story  confirmed  me  in  the  belief  that  I 
had  witnessed  something  unusual. 

Before  concluding  this  short  chapter  I  will  leave  the 
subject  of  the  Wiltshire  shepherd  and  his  sheep  to  quote 
a  remarkable  passage  about  men  singing  to  their  cattle 
in  Cornwall,  from  a  work  on  that  county  by  Richard 
Warner  of  Bath,  once  a  well-known  and  prolific  writer 
of  topographical  and  other  books.  They  are  little  known 
now,  I  fancy,  but  he  was  great  in  his  day,  which  lasted 
from  about  the  middle  of  the  eighteenth  to  about  the 
middle  of  the  nineteenth  century — at  all  events,  he  died 
in  1857,  aged  94.  But  he  was  not  great  at  first,  and 
finding  when  nearing  middle  age  that  he  was  not  pros- 
pering, he  took  to  the  Church  and  had  several  livings, 
some  of  them  running  concurrently,  as  was  the  fashion 
in  those  dark  days.  His  topographical  work  included 
Walks  in  Wales,  In  Somerset,  in  Devon,  Walks  in  many 
places,  usually  taken  in  a  stage-coach  or  on  horseback, 
containing  nothing  w^orth  remembering  except  perhaps 
the  one  passage  I  have  mentioned,  which  is  as  follows: — 

"We  had  scarcely  entered  Cornwall  before  our  atten- 


134  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

tion  was  agreeably  arrested  by  a  practice  connected  with 
the  agriculture  of  the  people,  which  to  us  was  entirely 
novel.  The  farmers  judiciously  employ  the  fine  oxen 
of  the  country  in  ploughing,  and  other  processes  of  hus- 
bandry, to  which  the  strength  of  this  useful  animal  can 
be  employed" — the  Rev.  Richard  Warner  is  tedious,  but 
let  us  be  patient  and  see  what  follows — "to  which  the 
strength  of  this  useful  animal  can  be  employed;  and 
while  the  hinds  are  thus  driving  their  patient  slaves  along 
the  furrows,  they  continually  cheer  them  with  conver- 
sation, denoting  approbation  and  pleasure.  This  encour- 
agement is  conveyed  to  them  in  a  sort  of  chaunt,  of  very 
agreeable  modulation,  which,  floating  through  the  air 
from  different  distances,  produces  a  striking  effect  both 
on  the  ear  and  imagination.  The  notes  are  few  and 
simple,  and  when  delivered  by  a  clear,  melodious  voice, 
have  something  expressive  of  that  tenderness  and  affec- 
tion which  man  naturally  entertains  for  the  companions 
of  his  labours,  in  a  pastoral  state  of  society,  when,  feeling 
more  forcibly  his  dependence  upon  domesticated  animals 
for  support,  he  gladly  reciprocates  with  them  kindness 
and  protection  for  comfort  and  subsistence.  This  wild 
melody  was  to  me,  I  confess,  peculiarly  affecting.  It 
seemed  to  draw  more  closely  the  link  of  friendship 
between  man  and  the  humbler  tribes  of  fclloiv  mortals. 
It  solaced  my  heart  with  the  appearance  of  humanity, 
in  a  world  of  violence  and  in  times  of  universal  hostile 
rage ;  and  it  gladdened  my  fancy  with  the  contemplation 
of  those  days  of  heavenly  harmony,  promised  in  the 
predictions  of  eternal  truth,  when  man,  freed  at  length 
from  prejudice  and  passion,  shall  seek  his  happiness  in 
cultivating  the  mild,  the  benevolent,  and  the  merciful 


STARLINGS    AND    SHEEP-BELLS     135 

sensibilities  of  his  nature;  and  when  the  animal  world, 
catching  the  virtues  of  its  lord  and  master,  shall  soften 
into  gentleness  and  love ;  when  the  wolf".   .   . 

And  so  on,  clause  after  clause,  with  others  to  be  added, 
until  the  whole  sentence  becomes  as  long  as  a  fishing-rod. 
But  apart  from  the  fiddlededee,  is  the  thing  he  states 
behevable?  It  is  a  charming  picture,  and  one  would  like 
to  know  more  about  that  "chaunt,"  that  "wild  melody.'* 
The  passage  aroused  my  curiosity  when  in  Cornwall,  as 
it  had  appeared  to  me  that  in  no  part  of  England  are 
the  domestic  animals  so  little  considered  by  their  masters. 
The  R.S.P.CA.  is  practically  unknown  there,  and  when 
watching  the  doings  of  shepherds  or  drovers  with  their 
sheep  the  question  has  occurred  to  me,  What  would  my 
Wiltshire  shepherd  friends  say  of  such  a  scene  if  they 
had  witnessed  it  ?  There  is  nothing  in  print  which  I  can 
find  to  confirm  Warner's  observations,  and  if  you  inquire 
of  very  old  men  who  have  been  all  their  lives  on  the  soil 
they  will  tell  you  that  there  has  never  been  such  a  custom 
In  their  time,  nor  have  they  ever  heard  of  it  as  existing 
formerly.  Warner's  Tour  through  Cornwall  is  dated 
1808. 

I  take  It  that  he  described  a  scene  he  actually  witnessed, 
and  that  he  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that  it  was  a  com- 
mon custom  for  the  ploughman  to  sing  to  his  oxen.  It  is 
not  unusual  to  find  a  man  anywhere  singing  to  his  oxen, 
or  horses,  or  sheep,  if  he  has  a  voice  and  is  fond  of  exer- 
cising it.  I  remember  that  in  a  former  book — "Nature 
In  Downland" — I  described  the  sweet  singing  of  a  cow- 
boy when  tending  his  cows  on  a  heath  near  Trotton,  in 
West  Sussex;  and  here  in  Wiltshire  it  amused  me  to 


136 


A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 


listen,  at  a  vast  distance,  to  the  robust  singing  of  a  shep- 
herd while  following  his  flock  on  the  great  lonely  downs 
above  Chitterne.  He  was  a  sort  of  Tamagno  of  the 
downs,  with  a  tremendous  voice  audible  a  mile  away. 


AMSTY    OKTKt   NAOOER 


CHAPTER   XII 
The  Shepherd  and  the  Bible 

Dan'l  Burdon,  the  treasure-seeker — The  shepherd's  feel- 
ing for  the  Bible — Effect  of  the  pastoral  life — The 
shepherd's  story  of  Isaac's  boyhood — The  village  on 
the  Wylye 

One  of  the  shepherd's  early  memories  was  of  Dan'l 
Burdon,  a  labourer  on  the  farm  where  Isaac  Bawcombe 
was  head-shepherd.  He  retained  a  vivid  recollection  of 
this  person,  who  had  a  profound  gravity  and  was  the 
most  silent  man  in  the  parish.  He  was  always  thinking 
about  hidden  treasure,  and  all  his  spare  time  was  spent 
in  seeking  for  it.  On  a  Sunday  morning,  or  in  the 
evening  after  working  hours,  he  would  take  a  spade  or 
pick  and  go  away  over  the  hills  on  his  endless  search 
after  "something  he  could  not  find."  He  opened  some 
of  the  largest  barrows,  making  trenches  six  to  ten  feet 
deep  through  them,  but  found  nothing  to  reward  him. 
One  day  he  took  Caleb  with  him,  and  they  went  to  a 
part  of  the  down  where  there  were  certain  depressions 

137 


138  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

in  the  turf  of  a  circular  form  and  six  to  seven  feet  in 
circumference.  Burdon  had  observed  these  basin-like 
depressions  and  had  thought  it  possible  they  marked  the 
place  where  things  of  value  had  been  buried  in  long-past 
ages.  To  begin  he  cut  the  turf  all  round  and  carefully 
removed  it,  then  dug  and  found  a  thick  layer  of  flints. 
These  removed,  he  came  upon  a  deposit  of  ashes  and 
charred  wood.  And  that  was  all.  Burdon  without  a 
word  set  to  work  to  put  it  all  back  in  its  place  again — 
ashes  and  wood,  and  earth  and  flints — and  having  trod 
it  firmly  down  he  carefully  replaced  the  turf,  then  leaning 
on  his  spade  gazed  silently  at  the  spot  for  a  space  of 
several  minutes.  At  last  he  spoke.  "Maybe,  Caleb, 
you've  heard  tell  about  what  the  Bible  says  of  burnt 
sacrifice.  Well  now,  I  be  of  opinion  that  it  were  here. 
They  people  the  Bible  says  about,  they  come  up  here 
to  sacrifice  on  White  Bustard  Down,  and  these  be  the 
places  where  they  made  their  fires." 

Then  he  shouldered  his  spade  and  started  home,  the 
boy  following.  Caleb's  comment  was:  "I  didn't  say 
nothing  to  un  because  I  were  only  a  leetel  boy  and  he 
were  a  old  man;  but  I  knowed  better  than  that  all  the 
time,  because  them  people  in  the  Bible  they  was  never 
in  England  at  all,  so  how  could  they  sacrifice  on  White 
Bustard  Down  in  Wiltsheer?" 

It  was  no  idle  boast  on  his  part.  Caleb  and  his  brothers 
had  been  taught  their  letters  when  small,  and  the  Bible 
was  their  one  book,  which  they  read  not  only  in  the 
evenings  at  home  but  out  on  the  downs  during  the  day 
when  they  were  with  the  flock.  His  extreme  familiarity 
with  the  whole  Scripture  narrative  was  a  marvel  to  me ; 
it  was  also  strange,  considering  how  intelligent  a  man 


THE  SHEPHERD  AND  THE  BIBLE     139 

he  was,  that  his  lifelong  reading  of  that  one  book  had 
made  no  change  in  his  rude  "Wiltsheer"  speech. 

Apart  from  the  feeling  which  old,  religious  country 
people,  who  know  nothing  about  the  Higher  Criticism, 
have  for  the  Bible,  taken  literally  as  the  Word  of  God, 
there  is  that  in  the  old  Scriptures  which  appeals  in  a 
special  way  to  the  solitary  man  who  feeds  his  flock  on 
the  downs.  I  remember  well  in  the  days  of  my  boyhood 
and  youth,  when  living  in  a  purely  pastoral  country 
among  a  semi-civilized  and  very  simple  people,  how 
understandable  and  eloquent  many  of  the  ancient  stories 
were  to  me.  The  life,  the  outlook,  the  rude  customs, 
and  the  vivid  faith  in  the  Unseen,  were  much  the  same 
in  that  different  race  in  a  far-distant  age,  in  a  remote 
region  of  the  earth,  and  in  the  people  I  mixed  with  in 
my  own  home.  That  country  has  been  changed  now; 
it  has  been  improved  and  civilized  and  brought  up  to  the 
European  standard ;  I  remember  it  when  it  was  as  it  had 
existed  for  upwards  of  two  centuries  before  it  had  caught 
the  contagion.  The  people  I  knew  were  the  descendants 
of  the  Spanish  colonists  of  the  seventeenth  century,  who 
had  taken  kindly  to  the  life  of  the  plains,  and  had  easily 
shed  the  traditions  and  ways  of  thought  of  Europe  and 
of  towns.  Their  philosophy  of  life,  their  ideals,  their 
morality,  were  the  result  of  the  conditions  they  existed 
in,  and  wholly  unlike  ours ;  and  the  conditions  were  like 
those  of  the  ancient  people  of  which  the  Bible  tells  us. 
Their  very  phraseology  was  strongly  reminiscent  of  that 
of  the  sacred  writings,  and  their  character  in  the  best 
specimens  was  like  that  of  the  men  of  the  far  past  who 
lived  nearer  to  God,  as  we  say,  and  certainly  nearer  to 
nature  than  it  is  possible  for  us  in  this  artificial  state. 


140  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

Among  these  sometimes  grand  old  men  who  were  large 
land-owners,  rich  in  flocks  and  herds,  these  fine  old, 
dignified  "natives,"  the  substantial  and  leading  men  of 
the  district  who  could  not  spell  their  own  names,  there 
were  those  who  reminded  you  of  Abraham  and  Isaac  and 
Jacob  and  Esau  and  Joseph  and  his  brethren,  and  even 


CARTtNO   WATER 
TOR  T«e  FLOCK. 


of  David  the  passionate  psalmist,  with  perhaps  a  guitar 
for  a  harp. 

No  doubt  the  Scripture  lessons  read  in  the  thousand 
churches  on  every  Sunday  of  the  year  are  practically 
meaningless  to  the  hearers.  These  old  men,  with  their 
sheep  and  goats  and  wives,  and  their  talk  about  God,  are 
altogether  out  of  our  ways  of  thought,  in  fact  as  far 
from  us — as  incredible  or  unimaginable,  we  may  say — 
as  the  neolithic  men  or  the  inhabitants  of  another  planet. 
They  are  of  the  order  of  mythical  heroes  and  the  giants 
of  antiquity.  To  read  about  them  is  an  ancient  custom, 
but  we  do  not  listen. 

Even  to  myself  the  memories  of  my  young  days  came 


THE  SHEPHERD  AND  THE  BIBLE     141 

to  be  regarded  as  very  little  more  than  mere  imaginations, 
and  I  almost  ceased  to  believe  in  them  until,  after  years 
of  mixing  with  modern  men,  mostly  in  towns,  I  fell  in 
with  the  downland  shepherds,  and  discovered  that  even 
here,  in  densely  populated  and  ultra-civilized  England, 
something  of  the  ancient  spirit  had  survived.  In  Caleb, 
and  a  dozen  old  men  more  or  less  like  him,  I  seemed  to 
find  myself  among  the  people  of  the  past,  and  sometimes 
they  were  so  much  like  some  of  the  remembered,  old, 
sober,  and  slow-minded  herders  of  the  plains  that  I  could 
not  help  saying  to  myself,  Why,  how  this  man  reminds 
me  of  Tio  Isidoro,  or  of  Don  Pascual  of  the  "Three 
Poplar  Trees,"  or  of  Marcos  who  would  always  have 
three  black  sheep  in  a  flock.  And  just  as  they  reminded 
me  of  these  men  I  had  actually  known,  so  did  they  bring 
back  the  older  men  of  the  Bible  history — ^Abraham  and 
Jacob  and  the  rest. 

The  point  here  is  that  these  old  Bible  stories  have  a 
reality  and  significance  for  the  shepherd  of  the  down 
country  which  they  have  lost  for  modern  minds;  that 
they  recognize  their  own  spiritual  lineaments  in  these 
antique  portraits,  and  tliat  all  these  strange  events  might 
have  happened  a  few  years  ago  and  not  far  away. 

One  day  I  said  to  Caleb  Bawcombe  that  his  knowledge 
of  the  Bible,  especially  of  the  old  part,  was  greater  than 
that  of  the  other  shepherds  I  knew  on  the  downs,  and 
I  would  like  to  hear  why  it  was  so.  This  led  to  the 
telling  of  a  fresh  story  about  his  father's  boyhood,  which 
he  had  heard  in  later  years  from  his  mother.  Isaac  was 
an  only  child  and  not  the  son  of  a  shepherd;  his  father 
was  a  rather  worthless  if  not  a  wholly  bad  man ;  he  was 
idle  and  dissolute,  and  being  remarkably  dextrous  with 


142  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

his  fists  he  was  persuaded  by  certain  sporting  persons  to 
make  a  business  of  fighting — quite  a  common  thing  in 
those  days.  He  wanted  nothing  better  and  spent  the 
greater  part  of  the  time  in  wandering  about  the  country ; 
the  money  he  made  was  spent  away  from  home,  mostly 
in  drink,  while  his  wife  was  left  to  keep  herself  and 
child  in  the  best  way  she  could  at  home  or  in  the  fields. 
By  and  by  a  poor  stranger  came  to  the  village  in  search 
of  work  and  was  engaged  for  very  little  pay  by  a  small 
farmer,  for  the  stranger  confessed  that  he  was  without 
experience  of  farm  work  of  any  description.  The  cheap- 
est lodging  he  could  find  was  in  the  poor  woman's  cottage, 
and  then  Isaac's  mother,  who  pitied  him  because  he  was 
so  poor  and  a  stranger  alone  in  the  world,  a  very  silent, 
melancholy  man,  formed  the  opinion  that  he  had  belonged 
to  another  rank  in  life.  His  speech  and  hands  and  per- 
sonal habits  betrayed  it.  Undoubtedly  he  was  a  gentle- 
man ;  and  then  from  something  in  his  manner,  his  voice, 
and  his  words  whenever  he  addressed  her,  and  his  atten- 
tion to  religion,  she  further  concluded  that  he  had  been 
in  the  Church;  that,  owing  to  some  trouble  or  disaster, 
ht  had  abandoned  his  place  in  the  world  to  live  away 
from  all  who  had  known  him,  as  a  labourer. 

One  day  he  spoke  to  her  about  Isaac:  he  said  he  had 
been  observing  him  and  thought  it  a  great  pity  that  such 
a  fine,  intelligent  boy  should  be  allowed  to  grow  up 
without  learning  his  letters.  She  agreed  that  it  was,  but 
what  could  she  do?  The  village  school  was  kept  by  an 
old  woman,  and  though  she  taught  the  children  very  little 
it  had  to  be  paid  for,  and  she  could  not  afford  it.  He 
then  offered  to  teach  Isaac  himself  and  she  gladly  con- 
sented, and  from  that  day  he  taught  Isaac  for  a  couple 


THE  SHEPHERD  AND  THE  BIBLE     143 

of  hours  every  evening  until  the  boy  was  able  to  read 
very  well,  after  which  they  read  the  Bible  through  to- 
gether, the  poor  man  explaining  everything,  especially 
the  historical  parts,  so  clearly  and  beautifully,  with  such 
an  intimate  knowledge  of  the  countries  and  peoples  and 
customs  of  the  remote  East,  that  it  was  all  more  interest- 
ing than  a  fairy-tale.  Finally  he  gave  his  copy  of  the 
Bible  to  Isaac,  and  told  him  to  carry  it  in  his  pocket  every 


•      COOFORO    on  we    YriS2fZ     • 


day  when  he  went  out  on  the  downs,  and  when  he  sat 
down  to  take  it  out  and  read  in  it.  For  by  this  time 
Isaac,  who  was  now  ten  years  old,  had  been  engaged 
as  a  shepherd-boy  to  his  great  happiness,  for  to  be  a 
shepherd  was  his  ambition. 

Then  one  day  the  stranger  rolled  up  his  few  belongings 
in  a  bundle  and  put  them  on  a  stick  which  he  placed  on 
his  shoulder,  said  good-bye,  and  went  away,  never  to 
return,  taking  his  sad  secret  with  him. 

Isaac  followed  the  stranger's  counsel,  and  when  he 


144  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

had  sons  of  his  own  made  them  do  as  he  had  done  from 
early  boyhood.  Caleb  had  never  gone  with  his  flock  on 
the  down  without  the  book,  and  had  never  passed  a  day 
without  reading  a  portion. 

The  incidents  and  observations  gathered  in  many  talks 
with  the  old  shepherd,  which  I  have  woven  into  the  fore- 
going chapters,  relate  mainly  to  the  earlier  part  of  his 
life,  up  to  the  time  when,  a  married  man  and  father  of 
three  small  children,  he  migrated  to  Warminster.  There 
he  was  in,  to  him,  a  strange  land,  far  away  from  friends 
and  home  and  the  old,  familiar  surroundings,  amid  new 
scenes  and  new  people.  But  the  few  years  he  spent  at  that 
place  had  furnished  him  with  many  interesting  memories, 
some  of  which  will  be  narrated  in  the  following  chapters. 

I  have  told  in  the  account  of  Winterbourne  Bishop 
how  I  first  went  to  that  village  just  to  see  his  native 
place,  and  later  I  visited  Doveton  for  no  other  reason 
than  that  he  had  lived  there,  to  find  It  one  of  the  most 
charming  of  the  numerous  pretty  villages  In  the  vale.  I 
looked  for  the  cottage  In  which  he  had  lived  and  thought 
it  as  perfect  a  home  as  a  quiet,  contemplative  man  who 
loved  nature  could  have  had:  a  small,  thatched  cottage, 
very  old  looking,  perhaps  inconvenient  to  live  in,  but 
situated  in  the  prettiest  spot,  away  from  other  houses, 
near  and  within  sight  of  the  old  church  with  old  elms 
and  beech  trees  growing  close  to  it,  and  the  land  about 
it  green  meadow.  The  clear  river,  fringed  with  a  luxuri- 
ant growth  of  sedges,  flag,  and  reeds,  was  less  than  a 
stone's-throw  away. 

So  much  did  I  like  the  vale  of  the  Wylye  when  I  grew 
to  know  it  well  that  I  wish  to  describe  it  fully  In  the 
chapter  that  follows. 


nsHEftTOH  VC  LA  MERE    or«  tmb  VTYXVE    . 


CHAPTER   XIII 
Vale  of  the  Wylye 

Warminster — Vale  of  the  Wylye — Counting  the  villages 
— A  lost  church — Character  of  the  villages — Tyther- 
ington  church — Story  of  the  dog — Lord  Lovell — 
Monuments  in  churches — Manor-houses — Knook — 
The  cottages — Yellow  stonecrop — Cottage  gardens 
—  Marigolds  —  Golden-rod  —  Wild  flowers  of  the 
water-side — Seeking  for  the  characteristic  expression 

The  prettily-named  Wylye  is  a  little  river  not  above 
twenty  miles  in  length  from  its  rise  to  Salisbury,  where, 
after  mixing  with  the  Nadder  at  Wilton,  it  joins  the 
Avon.  At  or  near  its  source  stands  Warminster,  a  small, 
unimportant  town  with  a  nobler-sounding  name  than  any 
other  in  Wiltshire.  Trowbridge,  Devizes,  Marlborough, 
Salisbury,  do  not  stir  the  mind  in  the  same  degree ;  and 
as  for  Chippenham,  Melksham,  Mere,  Calne,  and  Cor- 

145 


146  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

sham,  these  all  are  of  no  more  account  than  so  many 
villages  in  comparison.  Yet  Warminster  has  no  associa- 
tions— no  place  in  our  mental  geography;  at  all  events 
one  remembers  nothing  about  it.  Its  name,  which  after 
all  may  mean  nothing  more  than  the  monastery  on  the 
Were — one  of  the  three  streamlets  which  flow  into  the 
Wylye  at  its  source — is  its  only  glory.  It  is  not  sur- 
prising that  Caleb  Bawcombe  invariably  speaks  of  his 
migration  to,  and  of  the  time  he  passed  at  Warminster, 
when,  as  a  fact,  he  was  not  there  at  all,  but  at  Doveton, 
a  little  village  on  the  Wylye  a  few  miles  below  the  town 
with  the  great  name. 

It  is  a  green  valley — the  greenness  strikes  one  sharply 
on  account  of  the  pale  colour  of  the  smooth,  high  downs 
on  either  side — half  a  mile  to  a  mile  in  width,  its  crystal 
current  showing  like  a  bright  serpent  for  a  brief  space 
in  the  green,  flat  meadows,  then  vanishing  again  among 
the  trees.  So  many  are  the  great  shade  trees,  beeches 
and  ashes  and  elms,  that  from  some  points  the  valley  has 
the  appearance  of  a  continuous  wood — a  pontiguity  of 
shade.  And  the  wood  hides  the  villages,  at  some  points 
so  effectually  that  looking  down  from  the  hills  you  may 
not  catch  a  glimpse  of  one  and  imagine  It  to  be  a  valley 
where  no  man  dwells.  As  a  rale  you  do  see  something 
of  human  occupancy — the  red  or  yellow  roofs  of  two  or 
three  cottages,  a  half -hidden,  grey  church  tower,  or 
column  of  blue  smoke,  but  to  see  the  villages  you  must 
go  down  and  look  closely,  and  even  so  you  will  find  it 
difficult  to  count  them  all.  I  have  tried,  going  up  and 
down  the  valley  several  times,  walking  or  cycling,  and 
have  never  succeeded  in  getting  the  same  number  on  two 
occasions.    There  are  certainly  more  than  twenty,  without 


VALE   OF  THE   WYLYE  147 

counting  the  hamlets,  and  the  right  number  is  probably 
something  between  twenty-five  and  thirty,  but  I  do  not 
want  to  find  out  by  studying  books  and  maps.  I  prefer 
to  let  the  matter  remain  unsettled  so  as  to  have  the 
pleasure  of  counting  or  trying  to  count  them  again  at 
some  future  time.  But  I  doubt  that  I  shall  ever  succeed. 
On  one  occasion  I  caught  sight  of  a  quaint,  pretty  little 
church  standing  by  itself  in  the  middle  of  a  green  meadow, 
where  it  looked  very  solitary  with  no  houses  in  sight 
and  not  even  a  cow  grazing  near  it.  The  river  was 
between  me  and  the  church,  so  I  went  up-stream,  a  mile 
and  a  half,  to  cross  by  the  bridge,  then  doubled  back  to 
look  for  the  church,  and  couldn't  find  it !  Yet  it  was  no 
illusory  church;  I  have  seen  it  again  on  two  occasions, 
but  again  from  the  other  side  of  the  river,  and  I  must 
certainly  go  back  some  day  in  search  of  that  lost  church, 
where  there  may  be  effigies,  brasses,  sad,  eloquent  inscrip- 
tions, and  other  memorials  of  ancient  tragedies  and  great 
families  now  extinct  in  the  land. 

This  is  perhaps  one  of  the  principal  charms  of  the 
Wylye — the  sense  of  beautiful  human  things  hidden  from 
sight  among  the  masses  of  foliage.  Yet  another  lies  in 
the  character  of  the  villages.  Twenty-five  or  twenty-eight 
of  them  in  a  space  of  twenty  miles;  yet  the  impression 
left  on  the  mind  is  that  these  small  centres  of  population 
are  really  few  and  far  between.  For  not  only  are  they 
small,  but  of  the  old,  quiet,  now  almost  obsolete  type  of 
village,  so  unobtrusive  as  to  afifect  the  mind  soothingly, 
like  the  sight  of  trees  and  flowery  banks  and  grazing 
cattle.  The  churches,  too,  as  is  fit,  are  mostly  small  and 
ancient  and  beautiful,  half -hidden  in  their  tree- shaded 
churchyards,  rich  in  associations  which  go  back  to  a  time 


148  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

when  history  fades  into  myth  and  legend.  Not  all,  how- 
ever, are  of  this  description;  a  few  are  naked,  dreary 
little  buildings,  and  of  these  I  will  mention  one  which, 
albeit  ancient,  has  no  monuments  and  no  burial-ground. 
This  is  the  church  of  Tytherington,  a  small,  rustic  village, 
which  has  for  neighbours  Codford  St.  Peter  on  one  side 
and  Sutton  Veny  and  Norton  Bavant  on  the  other.  To 
get  into  this  church,  where  there  was  nothing  but  naked 
walls  to  look  at,  I  had  to  procure  the  key  from  the  clerk, 
a  nearly  blind  old  man  of  eighty.  He  told  me  that  he 
was  a  shoemaker  but  could  no  longer  see  to  make  or 
mend  shoes ;  that  as  a  boy  he  was  a  weak,  sickly  creature, 
and  his  father,  a  farm  bailiff,  made  him  learn  shoemaking 
because  he  was  unfit  to  work  out  of  doors.  "I  remember 
this  church,"  he  said,  "when  there  was  only  one  service 
each  quarter,"  but,  strange  to  say,  he  forgot  to  tell 
me  the  story  of  the  dog!  "What,  didn't  he  tell  you 
about  the  dog?"  exclaimed  everybody.  There  was  really 
nothing  else  to  tell. 

It  happened  about  a  hundred  years  ago  that  once, 
after  the  quarterly  service  had  been  held,  a  dog  was 
missed,  a  small  terrier  owned  by  the  young  wife  of  a 
farmer  of  Tytherington  named  Case.  She  was  fond 
of  her  dog,  and  lamented  its  loss  for  a  little  while,  then 
forgot  all  about  it.  But  after  three  months,  when  the 
key  was  once  more  put  into  the  rusty  lock  and  the  door 
thrown  open,  there  was  the  dog,  a  living  "skelington"  it 
was  said,  dazed  by  the  light  of  day,  but  still  able  to  walk ! 
It  was  supposed  that  he  had  kept  himself  alive  by  "licking 
the  moisture  from  the  walls."  The  walls,  they  said, 
were  dripping  with  wet  and  covered  with  a  thick  growth 
of  mould.     I  went  back  to  interrogate  the  ancient  clerk, 


VALE   OF   THE   WYLYE 


149 


and  he  said  that  the  dog  died  shortly  after  its  deliverance ; 
Mrs.  Case  herself  told  him  all  about  it.  She  was  an  old 
woman  then,  but  was  always  willing  to  relate  the  sad 
story  of  her  pet. 

That  picture  of  the  starving  dog  coming  out,  a  living 
skeleton,  from  the  wet,  mouldy  church,  reminds  us  sharp- 
ly of  the  changed  times  we  hve  in  and  of  the  days  when 
the  Church  was  still  sleeping  very  peacefully,  not  yet 


" — -'.;  -:-:^«^-.\ 


l»!*C-^- 


.^:. 


TITMERIIMOTON     CMVttCS-I 


turning  uneasily  in  its  bed  before  opening  its  eyes;  and 
when  a  comfortable  rector  of  Codford  thought  it  quite 
enough  that  the  people  of  Tytherington,  a  mile  away, 
should  have  one  service  every  three  months. 

As  a  fact,  the  Tytherington  dog  interested  me  as 
much  as  the  story  of  the  last  Lord  Lovell's  self-incar- 
ceration in  his  own  house  in  the  neighbouring  little  village 
of  Upton  Lovell.  He  took  refuge  there  from  his  enemies 
who  were  seeking  his  life,  and  concealed  himself  so 
effectually  that  he  was  never  seen  again.    Centuries  later. 


150  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

when  excavations  were  made  on  the  site  of  the  ruined 
mansion,  a  secret  chamber  was  discovered,  containing 
a  human  skeleton  seated  in  a  chair  at  a  table,  on  which 
were  books  and  papers  crumbling  into  dust. 

A  volume  might  be  filled  with  such  strange  and  ro- 
mantic happenings  in  the  little  villages  of  the  Wylye,  and 
for  the  natural  man  they  have  a  lasting  fascination ;  but 
they  invariably  relate  to  great  people  of  their  day — 
warriors  and  statesmen  and  landowners  of  old  and  noble 
lineage,  the  smallest  and  meanest  you  will  find  being 
clothiers,  or  merchants,  who  amassed  large  fortunes  and 
built  mansions  for  themselves  and  almshouses  for  the 
aged  poor,  and,  when  dead,  had  memorials  placed  to  them 
in  the  churches.  But  of  the  humble  cottagers,  the  true 
people  of  the  vale  who  were  rooted  in  the  soil,  and 
flourished  and  died  like  trees  in  the  same  place — of  these 
no  memory  exists.  We  only  know  that  they  lived  and 
laboured;  that  when  they  died,  three  or  four  a  year, 
three  or  four  hundred  in  a  century,  they  were  buried  in 
the  little  shady  churchyard,  each  with  a  green  mound 
over  him  to  mark  the  spot.  But  in  time  these  "mould- 
ering heaps"  subsided,  the  bodies  turned  to  dust,  and 
another  and  yet  other  generations  were  laid  in  the  same 
place  among  the  forgotten  dead,  to  be  themselves  in  turn 
forgotten.  Yet  I  would  rather  know  the  histories  of  these 
humble,  unremembered  lives  than  of  the  great  ones  of 
the  vale  who  have  left  us  a  memory. 

It  may  be  for  this  reason  that  I  was  little  interested 
in  the  manor-houses  of  the  vale.  They  are  plentiful 
enough,  some  gone  to  decay  or  put  to  various  uses; 
others  still  the  homes  of  luxury,  beauty,  culture:  stately 
rooms,  rich  fabrics;  pictures,  books,  and  manuscripts, 


YALE   OF   THE   WYLYE  \Sl 

gold  and  silver  ware,  china  and  glass,  expensive  curios, 
suits  of  armour,  ivory  and  antlers,  tiger-skins,  stuffed 
goshawks  and  peacocks'  feathers.  Houses,  in  some  cases 
built  centuries  ago,  standing  half -hidden  in  beautiful 
wooded  grounds,  isolated  from  the  village;  and  even  as 
they  thus  stand  apart,  sacred  from  intrusion,  so  the  life 
that  is  in  them  does  not  mix  with  or  form  part  of  the 
true  native  life.  They  are  to  the  cottagers  of  to-day 
what  the  Roman  villas  were  to  the  native  population  of 
some  eighteen  centuries  ago.  This  will  seem  incredible 
to  some:  to  me,  an  untrammelled  person,  familiar  in 
both  hall  and  cottage,  the  distance  between  them  appears 
immense. 

A  reader  well  acquainted  with  the  valley  will  probably 
laugh  to  be  told  that  the  manor-house  which  most  inter- 
ested me  was  that  of  Knook,  a  poor  little  village  between 
Heytesbury  and  Upton  Lovell.  Its  ancient  and  towerless 
little  church  wnth  rough,  grey  walls  is,  if  possible,  even 
more  desolate-looking  than  that  of  Tytherington.  In  my 
hunt  for  the  key  to  open  it  I  disturbed  a  quaint  old  man, 
another  octogenarian,  picturesque  in  a  vast  white  beard, 
who  told  me  he  was  a  thatcher,  or  had  been  one  before 
the  evil  days  came  when  he  could  work  no  more  and  was 
compelled  to  seek  parish  relief.  "You  must  go  to  tlie 
manor-house  for  the  key,"  he  told  me.  A  strange  place 
in  which  to  look  for  the  key,  and  it  was  stranger  still  to 
see  the  house,  close  to  the  church,  and  so  like  it  that  but 
for  the  small  cross  on  the  roof  of  the  latter  one  could 
not  have  known  which  was  the  sacred  building.  First  a 
monks'  house,  it  fell  at  the  Reformation  to  some  greedy 
gentleman  who  made  it  his  dwelling,  and  doubtless  in 
later  times  it  was  used  as  a  farm-house.     Now  a  house 


152 


'A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 


most  desolate,  dirty,  and  neglected,  with  cracks  in  the 
walls  which  threaten  ruin,  standing  in  a  wilderness  of 
M^eeds,  tenanted  by  a  poor  working-man  whose  wages 
are  twelve  shillings  a  week,  and  his  wife  and  eight  small 
children.  The  rent  is  eighteen-pence  a  week — probably 
the  lowest-rented  manor-house  in  England,  though  it  is 
not  very  rare  to  find  such  places  tenanted  by  labourers. 

But  let  us  look  at  the  true  cottages.     There  are,   I 
imagine,  few  places  in  England  where  the  humble  homes 


■J-fr— Iff-  f|r^ 


KNOOK.    CHURCH     C^    MANOfc  MOUSE    0«  TKE  WVT-YE 


>R,  Houa 


of  the  people  have  so  great  a  charm.  Undoubtedly  they 
are  darker  inside,  and  not  so  convenient  to  live  in  as 
the  modern  box-shaped,  red-brick,  slate-roofed  cottages, 
which  have  spread  a  wave  of  ugliness  over  the  country; 
but  they  do  not  offend — they  please  the  eye.  They  are 
smaller  than  the  modern-built  liabitations ;  they  are 
weathered  and  coloured  by  sun  and  wind  and  rain  and 
many  lowly  vegetable  forms  to  a  harmony  with  nature. 
They  appear  related  to  the  trees  amid  which  they  stand, 
to  the  river  and  meadows,  to  the  sloping  downs  at  the 
side,  and  to  the  sky  and  clouds  over  all.  And,  most 
delightful  feature,  they  stand  among,  and  are  wrapped 


VALE   OF   THE   WYLYE  153 

in,  flowers  as  in  a  garment — rose  and  vine  and  creeper 
and  clematis.  They  are  mostly  thatched,  but  some  have 
tiled  roofs,  their  deep,  dark  red  clouded  and  stained  with 
lichen  and  moss ;  and  these  roofs,  too,  have  their  flowers 
in  summer.  They  are  grown  over  with  yellow  stonecrop, 
that  bright  cheerful  flower  that  smiles  down  at  you  from 
the  lowly  roof  above  the  door,  with  such  an  inviting 
expression,  so  delighted  to  see  you  no  matter  how  poor 
and  worthless  a  person  you  may  be  or  what  mischief  you 
may  have  been  at,  that  you  begin  to  understand  the  sig- 
nificance of  a  strange  vernacular  name  of  this  plant — 
Welcome-home-husband-though-never-so-drunk. 

But  its  garden  flowers,  clustering  and  nestling  round 
it,  amid  which  its  feet  are  set — they  are  to  me  the  best 
of  all  flowers.  These  are  the  flowers  we  know  and 
remember  for  ever.  The  old,  homely,  cottage-garden 
blooms,  so  old  that  they  have  entered  the  soul.  The  big 
house  garden,  or  gardener's  garden,  with  everything 
growing  in  it  I  hate,  but  these  I  love — fragrant  gilly- 
flower and  pink  and  clove-smelling  carnation ;  wallflower, 
abundant  periwinkle,  sweet-william,  larkspur,  love-in-a- 
mist,  and  love-lies-bleeding,  old-woman's-nightcap,  and 
kiss-me-John-at-the-garden-gate,  sometimes  called  pansy. 
And  best  of  all  and  in  greatest  profusion,  that  flower  of 
flowers,  the  marigold. 

How  the  townsman,  town  born  and  bred,  regards  this 
flower,  I  do  not  know.  He  is,  in  spite  of  all  the  time 
I  have  spent  in  his  company,  a  comparative  stranger  to 
me — the  one  living  creature  on  the  earth  who  does  not 
greatly  interest  me.  Some  over-populated  planet  in  our 
system  discovered  a  way  to  relieve  itself  by  discharging 
its  superfluous  millions  on  our  globe — a  pale  people  with 


154  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

hurrying  feet  and  eager,  restless  minds,  who  live  apart 
in  monstrous,  crowded  camps,  Hke  wood  ants  that  go 
not  out  to  forage  for  themselves — six  milHons  of  them 
crowded  together  in  one  camp  alone!  I  have  lived  in 
these  colonies,  years  and  years,  never  losing  the  sense  of 
captivity,  of  exile,  ever  conscious  of  my  burden,  taking 
no  interest  in  the  doings  of  that  innumerable  multitude, 
its  manifold  interests,  its  ideals  and  philosophy,  its  arts 
and  pleasures.  What,  then,  does  it  matter  how  they 
regard  this  common  orange-coloured  flower  with  a  strong 
smell?  For  me  it  has  an  atmosphere,  a  sense  or  sugges- 
tion of  something  immeasurably  remote  and  very  beau- 
tiful— an  event,  a  place,  a  dream  perhaps,  which  has  left 
no  distinct  image,  but  only  this  feeling  unlike  all  others, 
imperishable,  and  not  to  be  described  except  by  the  one 
word  Marigold. 

But  when  my  sight  wanders  away  from  the  flower 
to  others  blooming  with  it — to  all  those  which  I  have 
named  and  to  the  taller  ones,  so  tall  that  they  reach 
half-way  up,  and  some  even  quite  up,  to  the  eaves  of 
the  lowly  houses  they  stand  against — Hollyhocks  and 
peonies  and  crystalline  white  lilies  with  powdery  gold 
inside,  and  the  common  sunflower — I  begin  to  perceive 
that  they  all  possess  something  of  that  same  magical 
quality. 

These  taller  blooms  remind  me  that  the  evening  prim- 
rose, long  naturalized  in  our  hearts,  is  another  common 
and  very  delightful  cottage-garden  flower ;  also  that  here, 
on  the  Wylye,  there  is  yet  another  stranger  from  the  same 
western  world  which  is  fast  winning  our  affections.  This 
is  the  golden-rod,  grandly  beautiful  in  its  great,  yellow, 
plume-like  tufts.    But  it  is  not  quite  right  to  call  the  tufts 


VALE   OF   THE   WYLYE 


155 


yellow:  they  are  green,  thickly  powdered  with  the  minute 
golden  florets.  There  is  no  flower  in  England  like  it, 
and  it  is  a  happiness  to  know  that  it  promises  to  establish 
itself  with  us  as  a  wild  flower. 

Where  the  village  lies  low  in  the  valley  and  the  cottage 
is  near  the  water,  there  are  wild  blooms,  too,  which 
almost  rival  those  of  the  garden  in  beauty — water  agri- 
mony and  comfrey  with  ivory-white  and  dim  purple  blos- 
soms, purple  and  yellow  loosestrife  and  gem-like,  water 


■WlSHrORD  oM-mr  V/VLYE 


f orget-me-not ;  all  these  mixed  with  reeds  and  sedges  and 
water-grasses,  forming  a  fringe  or  border  to  the  potato 
or  cabbage  patch,  dividing  it  from  the  stream. 

But  now  I  have  exhausted  the  subject  of  the  flowers, 
and  enumerated  and  dwelt  upon  the  various  other  com- 
ponents of  the  scene,  it  comes  to  me  that  I  have  not  yet 
said  the  right  thing  and  given  the  Wylye  its  characteristic 
expression.  In  considering  the  flowers  we  lose  sight  of 
the  downs,  and  so  in  occupying  ourselves  with  the  details 
we  miss  the  general  effect.     Let  me  then,  once  more, 


156  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

before  concluding  this  chapter,  try  to  capture  the  secret 
of  this  httle  river. 

There  are  other  chalk  streams  in  Wiltshire  and  Hamp- 
shire and  Dorset — swift  crystal  currents  that  play  all 
summer  long  with  the  floating  poa  grass  fast  held  in  their 
pebbly  beds,  flowing  through  smooth  downs,  with  small 
ancient  churches  in  their  green  villages,  and  pretty 
thatched  cottages  smothered  in  flowers — which  yet  do  not 
produce  the  same  effect  as  the  Wylye.  Not  Avon  for 
all  its  beauty,  nor  Itchen,  nor  Test.  Wherein,  then, 
does  the  "Wylye  bourne"  differ  from  these  others,  and 
what  is  Its  special  attraction?  It  was  only  when  I  set 
myself  to  think  about  it,  to  analyse  the  feeling  in  my 
own  mind,  that  I  discovered  the  secret — that  is,  in  my 
own  case,  for  of  its  effect  on  others  I  cannot  say  any- 
thing. What  I  discovered  was  that  the  various  elements 
of  interest,  all  of  which  may  be  found  in  other  chalk- 
stream  valleys,  are  here  concentrated,  or  comprised  in  a 
limited  space,  and  seen  together  produce  a  combined 
effect  on  the  mind.  It  is  the  narrowness  of  the  valley  and 
the  nearness  of  the  high  downs  standing  over  it  on  either 
side,  with,  at  some  points,  the  memorials  of  antiquity 
carved  on  their  smooth  surfaces,  the  barrows  and 
lynchetts  or  terraces,  and  the  vast  green  earth-works 
crowning  their  summit.  Up  here  on  the  turf,  even  with 
the  lark  singing  his  shrill  music  in  the  blue  heavens,  you 
are  with  the  prehistoric  dead,  yourself  for  the  time  one 
of  that  innumerable,  unsubstantial  multitude,  invisible 
in  the  sun,  so  that  the  sheep  travelling  as  they  graze,  and 
the  shepherd  following  them,  pass  through  their  ranks 
without  suspecting  their  presence.  And  from  that  eleva- 
tion you  look  down  upon  the  life  of  to-day — the  visible 


VALE   OF   THE   WYLYE  157 

life,  so  brief  in  the  individual,  which,  like  the  swift  silver 
stream  beneath,  yet  flows  on  continuously  from  age  to 
age  and  for  ever.  And  even  as  you  look  down  you  hear, 
at  that  distance,  the  bell  of  the  little  hidden  church  tower 
telling  the  hour  of  noon,  and  quickly  following,  a  shout 
of  freedom  and  joy  from  many  shrill  voices  of  children 
just  released  from  school.  Woke  to  life  by  those  sounds, 
and  drawn  down  by  them,  you  may  sit  to  rest  or  sun 
yourself  on  the  stone  table  of  a  tomb  overgrown  on  its 
sides  with  moss,  the  two-century-old  inscription  well- 
nigh  obliterated,  in  the  little  grass-grown,  flowery  church- 
yard which  serves  as  village  green  and  playground  in 
that  small  centre  of  life,  where  the  living  and  the  dead 
exist  in  a  neighbourly  way  together.  For  it  is  not  here 
as  in  towns,  where  the  dead  are  away  and  out  of  mind 
and  the  past  cut  off.  And  if  after  basking  too  long  in 
the  sun  in  that  tree-sheltered  spot  you  go  into  the  little 
church  to  cool  yourself,  you  will  probably  find  in  a  dim 
corner  not  far  from  the  altar  a  stone  effigy  of  one  of 
an  older  time;  a  knight  in  armour,  perhaps  a  crusader 
with  legs  crossed,  lying  on  his  back,  dimly  seen  in  the 
dim  light,  with  perhaps  a  coloured  sunbeam  on  his  up- 
turned face.  For  this  little  church  where  the  villagers 
worship  is  very  old ;  Norman  on  Saxon  foundations ;  and 
before  they  were  ever  laid  there  may  have  been  a  temple 
to  some  ancient  god  at  that  spot,  or  a  Roman  villa  per- 
haps. For  older  than  Saxon  foundations  are  found  in 
the  vale,  and  mosaic  floors,  still  beautiful  after  lying 
buried  so  long. 

All  this — the  far-removed  events  and  periods  in  time 
— are  not  in  the  conscious  mind  when  we  are  in  the  vale 
or  when  we  are  looking  down  on  it  from  above:   the 


158  lA   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

mind  is  occupied  with  nothing  but  visible  nature.  Thus, 
when  I  am  sitting  on  the  tomb,  hstening  to  the  various 
sounds  of  life  about  me,  attentive  to  the  flowers  and  bees 
and  butterflies,  to  man  or  woman  or  child  taking  a  short 
cut  through  the  churchyard,  exchanging  a  few  words 
with  them ;  or  when  I  am  by  the  water  close  by,  watching 
a  little  company  of  graylings,  their  delicately-shaded, 
silver-grey  scales  distinctly  seen  as  they  lie  in  the  crystal 
current  watching  for  flies;  or  when  I  listen  to  the  per- 
petual musical  talk  and  song  combined  of  a  family  of 
green-finches  in  the  alders  or  willows,  my  mind  is  engaged 
with  these  things.  But  if  one  is  familiar  with  the  vale; 
if  one  has  looked  with  interest  and  been  deeply  impressed 
with  the  signs  and  memorials  of  past  life  and  of  antiquity 
everywhere  present  and  forming  part  of  the  scene,  some- 
thing of  it  and  of  all  that  it  represents  remains  in  the 
subconscious  mind  to  give  a  significance  and  feeling  to 
the  scene,  which  affects  us  here  more  than  in  most  places; 
and  that,  I  take  it,  is  the  special  charm  of  this  little  valley. 


"">.. 


•'■) 


,^^L':i..    ^..v 


CHAPTER   XIV 
A  Sheep-Dog's  Life 

Watch — His  visits  to  a  dew-pond — David  and  his  dog 
Monk — Watch  goes  to  David's  assistance — Caleb's 
new  master  objects  to  his  dog — Watch  and  the  corn- 
crake— Watch  plays  with  rabbits  and  guinea-pigs — 
Old  Nance  the  rook-scarer — The  lost  pair  of  specta- 
cles— Watch  in  decline — Grey  hairs  in  animals — A 
grey  mole — Last  days  of  Watch — A  shepherd  on  old 
sheep-dogs 

Perhaps  the  most  interesting  of  the  many  sheep-dog 
histories  the  shepherd  related  was  that  of  Watch,  a  dog 
he  had  at  Winterbourne  Bishop  for  three  years  before 
he  migrated  to  Warminster.  Watch,  he  said,  was  more 
"like  a  Christian,"  otherwise  a  reasonable  being,  than 
any  other  dog  he  had  owned.  He  was  exceedingly  active, 
and  in  hot  weather  suffered  more  from  heat  than  most 
dogs.  Now  the  only  accessible  water  when  they  were 
out  on  the  down  was  in  the  mist-pond  about  a  quarter 
of  a  mile  from  his  "liberty,"  as  he  called  that  portion 

159 


160  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

of  the  down  on  which  he  was  entitled  to  pasture  his  sheep. 
When  Watch  could  stand  his  sufferings  no  longer,  he 
would  run  to  his  master,  and  sitting  at  his  feet  look  up 
at  his  face  and  emit  a  low,  pleading  whine. 

"What  be  you  wanting,  Watch — a  drink  or  a  swim?" 
the  shepherd  would  say,  and  Watch,  cocking  up  his  ears, 
would  repeat  the  whine. 

"Very  well,  go  to  the  pond,"  Bawcombe  would  say, 
and  off  Watch  would  rush,  never  pausing  until  he  got 
to  the  water,  and  dashing  in  he  would  swim  round  and 
round,  lapping  the  water  as  he  bathed. 

At  the  side  of  the  pond  there  was  a  large,  round  sarsen- 
stone,  and  invariably  on  coming  out  of  his  bath  Watch 
would  jump  upon  it,  and  with  his  four  feet  drawn  up 
close  together  would  turn  round  and  round,  surveying 
the  country  from  that  elevation;  then  jumping  down  he 
would  return  in  all  haste  to  his  duties. 

Another  anecdote,  which  relates  to  the  Winterbourne 
Bishop  period,  is  a  somewhat  painful  one,  and  is  partly 
about  Monk,  the  sheep-dog  already  described  as  a  hunter 
of  foxes,  and  his  tragic  end.  Caleb  had  worked  him  for 
a  time,  but  when  he  came  into  possession  of  Watch  he 
gave  Monk  to  his  young  brother  David,  who  was  under- 
shepherd  on  the  same  farm. 

One  morning  Caleb  was  with  the  ewes  in  a  field,  when 
David,  who  was  in  charge  of  the  lambs  two  or  three 
fields  away,  came  to  him  looking  very  strange — very 
much  put  out. 

"What  are  you  here  for — what's  wrong  with  'ee?" 
demanded  Caleb. 

"Nothing's  wrong,"  returned  the  other. 

"Where's  Monk  then?"  asked  Caleb. 


A    SHEEP-DOG'S    LIFE  161 

"Dead,"  said  David. 

"Dead!     How's  he  dead?" 

"I  killed  'n.  He  wouldn't  mind  me  and  made  me 
mad,  and  I  up  with  my  stick  and  gave  him  one  crack  on 
the  head  and  it  killed  'n." 

"You  killed  'n!"  exclaimed  Caleb.  "An'  you  come 
here  an'  tell  I  nothing's  wrong!  Is  that  a  right  way  to 
speak  of  such  a  thing  as  that?  What  be  you  thinking 
of?    And  what  be  you  going  to  do  with  the  lambs?" 

"I'm  just  going  back  to  them — I'm  going  to  do  without 
a  dog.  I'm  going  to  put  them  in  the  rape  and  they'll 
be  all  right." 

"What  I  put  them  in  the  rape  and  no  dog  to  help  'ee  ?" 
cried  the  other.  "You  are  not  doing  things  right,  but 
master  mustn't  pay  for  it.  Take  Watch  to  help  'ee — I 
must  do  without  'n  this  morning." 

"No,  I'll  not  take  'n,"  he  said,  for  he  was  angry  be- 
cause he  had  done  an  evil  thing  and  he  would  have  no 
one,  man  or  dog,  to  help  him.  "I'll  do  better  without  a 
dog,"  he  said,  and  marched  off. 

Caleb  cried  after  him:  "If  you  won't  have  the  dog 
don't  let  the  lambs  suffer  but  do  as  I  tell  'ee.  Don't  you 
let  'em  bide  in  the  rape  more  'n  ten  minutes ;  then  chase 
them  out,  and  let  *em  stand  twenty  minutes  to  half  an 
hour ;  then  let  them  in  another  ten  minutes  and  out  again 
for  twenty  minutes,  then  let  them  go  back  and  feed  in 
it  quietly,  for  the  danger  '11  be  over.  If  you  don't  do  as 
I  tell  'ee  you'll  have  many  blown." 

David  listened,  then  without  a  word  went  his  way. 
But  Caleb  was  still  much  troubled  in  his  mind.  How 
would  he  get  that  flock  of  hungry  lambs  out  of  the  rape 
without  a  dog?     And  presently  he  determined  to  send 


162  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

Watch,  or  try  to  send  him,  to  save  the  situation.  David 
had  been  gone  half  an  hour  when  he  called  the  dog,  and 
pointing  in  the  direction  he  had  taken  he  cried,  "David 
wants  'ee — go  to  Dave." 

Watch  looked  at  him  and  listened,  then  bounded  away, 
and  after  running  full  speed  about  fifty  yards  stopped 
to  look  back  to  make  sure  he  was  doing  the  right  thing. 
"Go  to  Dave,"  shouted  Caleb  once  more ;  and  away  went 
Watch  again,  and  arriving  at  a  very  high  gate  at  the 
end  of  the  field  dashed  at  and  tried  two  or  three  times 
to  get  over  it,  first  by  jumping,  then  by  climbing,  and 
falling  back  each  time.  But  by  and  by  he  managed  to 
force  his  way  through  the  thick  hedge  and  was  gone 
from  sight. 

When  David  came  back  that  evening  he  was  in  a 
different  mood,  and  said  that  Watch  had  saved  him 
from  a  great  misfortune:  he  could  never  have  got  the 
lambs  out  by  himself,  as  they  were  mad  for  the  rape. 
For  some  days  after  this  Watch  served  two  masters. 
Caleb  would  take  him  to  his  ewes,  and  after  a  while 
would  say,  "Go — Dave  wants  'ee,"  and  away  Watch 
would  go  to  the  other  shepherd  and  flock. 

When  Bawcombe  had  taken  up  his  new  place  at  Dove- 
ton,  his  master,  Mr.  Ellerby,  watched  him  for  a  while 
with  sharp  eyes,  but  he  was  soon  convinced  that  he  had 
not  made  a  mistake  in  engaging  a  head-shepherd  twenty- 
five  miles  away  without  making  the  usual  inquiries  but 
merely  on  the  strength  of  something  heard  casually  in 
conversation  about  this  man.  But  while  more  than  satis- 
fied with  the  man  he  remained  suspicious  of  the  dog. 
"I'm  afraid  that  dog  of  yours  must  hurt  the  sheep,"  he 
would  say,  and  he  even  advised  him  to  change  him  for 


A    SHEEP-DOG'S    LIFE 


163 


one  that  worked  in  a  quieter  manner.  Watch  was  too 
excitable,  too  impetuous — he  could  not  go  after  the  sheep 
in  that  violent  way  and  grab  them  as  he  did  without 
injuring  them  with  his  teeth. 

"He  did  never  bite  a  sheep  in  his  life,"  Bawcombe 
assured  him,  and  eventually  he  was  able  to  convince  his 
master  that  Watch  could  make  a  great  show  of  biting 


IME   LAM&lMd  rOLD. 


the  sheep  without  doing  them  the  least  hurt — that  it  was 
actually  against  his  nature  to  bite  or  injure  anything. 

One  day  in  the  late  summer,  when  the  corn  had  been 
cut  but  not  carried,  Bawcombe  was  with  his  flock  on 
the  edge  of  a  newly  reaped  cornfield  in  a  continuous, 
heavy  rain,  when  he  spied  his  master  coming  to  him. 
He  was  in  a  very  light  summer  suit  and  straw  hat,  and 
had  no  umbrella  or  other  protection  from  the  pouring 
rain.  "What  be  wrong  with  master  to-day?"  said  Baw- 
combe. "He's  tarrably  upset  to  be  out  like  this  in  such 
a  rain  in  a  straw  hat  and  no  coat." 

Mr.  Ellerby  had  by  that  time  got  into  the  habit  when 
troubled  in  his  mind  of  going  out  to  his  shepherd  to 
have  a  long  talk  with  him.    Not  a  talk  about  his  trouble 


164  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

— that  was  some  secret  bitterness  in  his  heart — but  just 
about  the  sheep  and  other  ordinary  topics,  and  the  talk, 
Caleb  said,  would  seem  to  do  him  good.  But  this  habit 
he  had  got  into  was  obser\Td  by  others,  and  the  farm- 
men  would  say,  "Something's  wrong  to-day — the  mas- 
ter's gone  off  to  the  head-shepherd." 

When  he  came  to  where  Bawcombe  was  standing,  in 
a  poor  shelter  by  the  side  of  a  fence,  he  at  once  started 
talking  on  indifferent  subjects,  standing  there  quite  un- 
concerned, as  if  he  didn't  even  know  that  it  was  raining, 
though  his  thin  clothes  were  wet  through,  and  the  water 
coming  through  his  straw  hat  was  running  in  streaks 
down  his  face.  By  and  by  he  became  interested  in  the 
dog's  movements,  playing  about  in  the  rain  among  the 
stooks.  "What  has  he  got  in  his  mouth?"  he  asked 
presently. 

"Come  here,  Watch,"  the  shepherd  called,  and  when 
Watch  came  in  bent  down  and  took  a  corn-crake  from 
his  mouth.  He  had  found  the  bird  hiding  in  one  of  the 
stooks  and  had  captured  without  injuring  it. 

"Why,  it's  alive — the  dog  hasn't  hurt  it,"  said  the 
farmer,  taking  it  in  his  hands  to  examine  it. 

"Watch  never  hurted  any  creature  yet,"  said  Baw- 
combe. He  caught  things  just  for  his  own  amusement, 
but  never  injured  them — he  always  let  them  go  again. 
He  would  hunt  mice  in  the  fields,  and  when  he  captured 
one  he  would  play  with  it  like  a  cat,  tossing  it  from  him, 
then  dashing  after  and  recapturing  it.  Finally  he  would 
let  it  go.  He  played  with  rabbits  in  the  same  way,  and 
if  you  took  a  rabbit  from  him  and  examined  it  you  would 
find  it  quite  uninjured. 

The  farmer   said  it  was  wonderful — he  had  never 


A    SHEEP-DOG'S    LIFE  165 

heard  of  a  case  like  it  before;  and  talking  of  Watch  he 
succeeded  in  forgetting  the  trouble  in  his  mind  which 
had  sent  him  out  in  the  rain  in  his  thin  clothes  and  straw- 
hat,  and  he  went  away  in  a  cheerful  mood. 

Caleb  probably  forgot  to  mention  during  this  conver- 
sation with  his  master  that  in  most  cases  when  Watch 
captured  a  rabbit  he  took  it  to  his  master  and  gave  it 
into  his  hands,  as  much  as  to  say.  Here  is  a  very  big 
sort  of  field-mouse  I  have  caught,  rather  difficult  to 
manage — perhaps  you  can  do  something  with  it? 

The  shepherd  had  many  other  stories  about  this  curious 
disposition  of  his  dog.  When  he  had  been  some  months 
in  his  new  place  his  brother  David  followed  him  to  the 
Wylye,  having  obtained  a  place  as  shepherd  on  a  farm 
adjoining  Mr.  Ellerby's.  His  cottage  was  a  little  out 
of  the  village  and  had  some  ground  to  it,  with  a  nice 
lawn  or  green  patch.  David  was  fond  of  keeping  animal 
pets — birds  in  cages,  and  rabbits  and  guinea-pigs  in 
hutches,  the  last  so  tame  that  he  would  release  them  on 
the  grass  to  see  them  play  with  one  another.  When 
Watch  first  saw  these  pets  he  was  very  much  attracted, 
and  wanted  to  get  to  them,  and  after  a  good  deal  of 
persuasion  on  the  part  of  Caleb,  David  one  day  consented 
to  take  them  out  and  put  them  on  the  grass  in  the  dog's 
presence.  They  were  a  little  alarmed  at  first,  but  in  a 
surprisingly  short  time  made  the  discovery  that  this 
particular  dog  was  not  their  enemy  but  a  playmate.  He 
rolled  on  the  grass  among  them,  and  chased  them  round 
and  round,  and  sometimes  caught  and  pretended  to 
worry  them,  and  they  appeared  to  think  it  very  good 
fun. 

*'Watch,"  said  Bawcombe,  "in  the  fifteen  years  I  had 


166  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

'n,  never  killed  and  never  hurt  a  creature,  no,  not  even 
a  leetel  mouse,  and  when  he  caught  anything  'twere  only 
to  play  with  it." 

Watch  comes  into  a  story  of  an  old  woman  employed 
at  the  farm  at  this  period.  She  had  been  in  the  War- 
minster workhouse  for  a  short  time,  and  had  there  heard 
that  a  daughter  of  a  former  mistress  in  another  part 
of  the  county  had  long  been  married  and  was  now  the 
mistress  of  Doveton  Farm,  close  by.  Old  Nance  there- 
upon obtained  her  release  and  trudged  to  Doveton,  and 
one  very  rough,  cold  day  presented  herself  at  the  farm 
to  beg  for  something  to  do  which  would  enable  her  to 
keep  herself.  If  there  was  nothing  for  her  she  must, 
she  said,  go  back  and  end  her  days  in  the  Warminster 
workhouse.  Mrs.  Ellerby  remembered  and  pitied  her, 
and  going  in  to  her  husband  begged  him  earnestly  to 
find  some  place  on  the  farm  for  the  forlorn  old  creature. 
He  did  not  see  what  could  be  done  for  her ;  they  already 
had  one  old  woman  on  their  hands,  who  mended  sacks 
and  did  a  few  other  trifling  things,  but  for  another  old 
woman  there  would  be  nothing  to  do.  Then  he  went  in 
and  had  a  good  long  look  at  her,  revolving  the  matter 
in  his  mind,  anxious  to  please  his  wife,  and  finally,  he 
asked  her  if  she  could  scare  the  crows.  He  could  think 
of  nothing  else.  Of  course  she  could  scare  crows — it 
was  the  very  thing  for  her!  Well,  he  said,  she  could 
go  and  look  after  the  swedes;  the  rooks  had  just  taken 
a  liking  to  them,  and  even  if  she  was  not  very  active 
perhaps  she  would  be  able  to  keep  them  off. 

Old  Nance  got  up  to  go  and  begin  her  duties  at  once. 
Then  the  farmer,  looking  at  her  clothes,  said  he  would 
give  her  something  more  to  protect  her  from  the  weather 


A    SHEEP-DOG'S    LIFE  167 

on  such  a  bleak  day.  He  got  her  an  old  felt  hat,  a  big 
old,  frieze  overcoat,  and  a  pair  of  old  leather  leggings. 
When  she  had  put  on  these  somewhat  cumbrous  things, 
and  had  tied  her  hat  firmly  on  with  a  strip  of  cloth,  and 
fastened  the  coat  at  the  waist  with  a  cord,  she  was  told 
to  go  to  the  head-shepherd  and  ask  him  to  direct  her  to 
the  field  where  the  rooks  were  troublesome.  Then  when 
she  was  setting  out  the  farmer  called  her  back  and  gave 
her  an  ancient,  rusty  gun  to  scare  the  birds.  *'It  isn't 
loaded,"  he  said,  with  a  grim  smile.  "I  don't  allow 
powder  and  shot,  but  if  you'll  point  it  at  them  they'll 
fly  fast  enough." 

Thus  arrayed  and  armed  she  set  forth,  and  Caleb 
seeing  her  approach  at  a  distance  was  amazed  at  her 
grotesque  appearance,  and  even  more  amazed  still  when 
she  explained  who  and  what  she  was  and  asked  him  to 
direct  her  to  the  field  of  swedes. 

Some  hours  later  the  farmer  came  to  him  and  asked 
him  casually  if  he  had  seen  an  old  gallus-crow  about. 

"Well,"  replied  the  shepherd,  *T  seen  an  old  woman 
in  man's  coat  and  things,  with  an  old  gun,  and  I  did  tell 
she  where  to  bide." 

*T  think  it  will  be  rather  cold  for  the  old  body  in  that 
field,"  said  the  farmer.  *T'd  like  you  to  get  a  couple 
of  padded  hurdles  and  put  them  up  for  a  shelter  for 
her." 

And  in  the  shelter  of  the  padded  or  thatched  hurdles, 
by  the  hedge-side,  old  Nance  spent  her  days  keeping 
guard  over  the  turnips,  and  afterwards  something  else 
was  found  for  her  to  do,  and  in  the  meanwhile  she  lodged 
in  Caleb's  cottage  and  became  like  one  of  the  family. 
She  was  fond  of  the  children  and  of  the  dog,  and  Watch 


168  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

became  so  much  attached  to  her  that  had  it  not  been  for 
his  duties  with  the  flock  he  would  have  attended  her  all 
day  in  the  fields  to  help  her  with  the  crows. 

Old  Nance  had  two  possessions  she  greatly  prized — 
a  book  and  a  pair  of  spectacles,  and  it  was  her  custom 
to  spend  the  day  sitting,  spectacles  on  nose  and  book  in 
hand,  reading  among  the  turnips.  Her  spectacles  were 
so  "tarrable"  good  that  they  suited  all  old  eyes,  and  when 
this  was  discovered  they  were  in  great  request  in  the 
village,  and  every  person  who  wanted  to  do  a  bit  of  fine 
sewing  or  anything  requiring  young  vision  in  old  eyes 
would  borrow  them  for  the  purpose.  One  day  the  old 
woman  returned  full  of  trouble  from  the  fields — she  had 
lost  her  spectacles ;  she  must,  she  thought,  have  lent  them 
to  some  one  in  the  village  on  the  previous  evening  and 
then  forgotten  all  about  it.  But  no  one  had  them,  and 
the  mysterious  loss  of  the  spectacles  was  discussed  and 
lamented  by  everybody.  A  day  or  two  later  Caleb  came 
through  the  turnips  on  his  way  home,  the  dog  at  his 
heels,  and  when  he  got  to  his  cottage  Watch  came  round 
and  placed  himself  square  before  his  master  and  deposited 
the  lost  spectacles  at  his  feet.  He  had  found  them  in 
the  turnip-field  over  a  mile  from  home,  and  though  but 
a  dog  he  remembered  that  he  had  seen  them  on  people's 
noses  and  in  their  hands,  and  knew  that  they  must  there- 
fore be  valuable — not  to  himself,  but  to  that  larger  and 
more  important  kind  of  dog  that  goes  about  on  its  hind 
legs. 

There  is  always  a  sad  chapter  in  the  life-history  of  a 
dog;  it  is  the  last  one,  which  tells  of  his  decline;  and 
it  is  ever  saddest  in  the  case  of  the  sheep-dog,  because  he 
has  lived  closer  to  man  and  has  served  him  every  day,  of 


A    SHEEP-DOG'S    LIFE  169 

his  life  with  all  his  powers,  all  his  intelligence,  in  the 
one  useful  and  necessary  work  he  is  fitted  for  or  which 
we  have  found  for  him  to  do.  The  hunting  and  the  pet, 
or  parasite,  dogs — the  "dogs  for  sport  and  pleasure" — 
though  one  in  species  with  him  are  not  like  beings  of 
the  same  order;  they  are  like  professional  athletes  and 
performers,  and  smart  or  fashionable  people  compared 
to  those  who  do  the  work  of  the  world — who  feed  us 
and  clothe  us.  We  are  accustomed  to  speak  of  dogs 
generally  as  the  servants  and  the  friends  of  man;  it  is 
only  of  the  sheep-dog  that  this  can  be  said  with  absolute 
truth.  Not  only  is  he  the  faithful  servant  of  the  solitary 
man  who  shepherds  his  flock,  but  the  dog's  companion- 
ship is  as  much  to  him  as  that  of  a  fellow-being  would  be. 
Before  his  long  and  strenuous  life  was  finished,  Watch, 
originally  jet-black  without  a  spot,  became  quite  grey, 
the  greyness  being  most  marked  on  the  head,  which 
became  at  last  almost  white. 

It  is  undoubtedly  the  case  that  some  animals,  like 
men,  turn  grey  with  age,  and  Watch  when  15  was  rela- 
tively as  old  as  a  man  at  65  or  70.  But  grey  hairs  do 
not  invariably  come  with  age,  even  in  our  domestic 
animals,  which  are  more  subject  to  this  change  than 
those  in  a  state  of  nature.  But  we  are  never  so  well 
able  to  judge  of  this  in  the  case  of  wild  animals,  as  in 
most  cases  their  lives  end  prematurely. 

The  shepherd  related  a  curious  instance  in  a  mole. 
He  once  noticed  mole-heaps  of  a  peculiar  kind  in  a  field 
of  sainfoin,  and  it  looked  to  him  as  if  this  mole  worked 
in  a  way  of  his  own,  quite  unlike  the  others.  The  hills 
he  threw  up  were  a  good  distance  apart,  and  so  large 
that  you  could  fill  a  bushel  measure  with  the  mould 


170  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

from  any  one  of  them.  He  noticed  that  this  mole  went 
on  burrowing  every  day  in  the  same  manner;  every 
morning  there  were  new  chains  or  ranges  of  the  huge 
mounds.  The  runs  were  very  deep,  as  he  found  when 
setting  a  mole-trap — over  two  feet  beneath  the  surface. 
He  set  his  trap,  filling  the  deep  hole  he  had  made  with 
sods,  and  on  opening  it  next  day  he  found  his  mole  and 
was  astonished  at  its  great  size.  He  took  no  measure- 
ments, but  it  was  bigger,  he  affirmed,  than  he  could  have 
believed  it  possible  for  a  mole  to  be.  And  it  was  grey 
instead  of  black,  the  grey  hairs  being  so  abundant  on 
the  head  as  to  make  it  almost  white,  as  in  the  case  of 
old  Watch.  He  supposed  that  it  was  a  very  old  mole, 
that  it  was  a  more  powerful  digger  than  most  of  its 
kind,  and  had  perhaps  escaped  death  so  long  on  account 
of  its  strength  and  of  its  habit  of  feeding  deeper  in  the 
earth  than  the  others. 

To  return  to  Watch.  His  hearing  and  eyesight  failed 
as  he  grew  older  until  he  was  practically  blind  and  too 
deaf  to  hear  any  word  given  in  the  ordinary  way.  But 
he  continued  strong  as  ever  on  his  legs,  and  his  mind 
was  not  decayed,  nor  was  he  In  the  least  tired.  On  the 
contrary,  he  was  always  eager  to  work,  and  as  his  blind- 
ness and  deafness  had  made  him  sharper  in  other  ways 
he  was  still  able  to  make  himself  useful  with  the  sheep. 
Whenever  the  hurdles  were  shifted  to  a  fresh  place  and 
the  sheep  had  to  be  kept  in  a  corner  of  the  enclosure 
until  the  new  place  was  ready  for  them,  it  was  old  Watch's 
duty  to  keep  them  from  breaking  away.  He  could  not 
see  nor  hear,  but  in  some  mysterious  way  he  knew  when 
they  tried  to  get  out,  even  if  It  was  but  one.  Possibly 
the  slight  vibration  of  the  ground  informed  him  of  the 


A    SHEEP-DOG'S    LIFE  171 

movement  and  the  direction  as  well.  He  would  make  a 
dash  and  drive  the  sheep  back,  then  run  up  and  down 
before  the  flock  until  all  was  quiet  again.  But  at  last 
it  became  painful  to  witness  his  efforts,  especially  when 
the  sheep  were  very  restless,  and  incessantly  trying  to 
break  away ;  and  Watch  finding  them  so  hard  to  restrain 
would  grow  angry  and  rush  at  them  with  such  fury 
that  he  would  come  violently  against  the  hurdles  at  one 
side,  then  getting  up,  howling  with  pain,  he  would  dash 
to  the  other  side,  when  he  would  strike  the  hurdles  there 
and  cry  out  with  pain  once  more. 

It  could  not  be  allowed  to  go  on ;  yet  Watch  could  not 
endure  to  be  deprived  of  his  work;  if  left  at  home  he 
would  spend  the  time  whining  and  moaning,  praying  to 
be  allowed  to  go  to  the  flock,  until  at  last  his  master 
with  a  very  heavy  heart  was  compelled  to  have  him  put 
to  death. 

This  is  indeed  almost  invariably  the  end  of  a  sheep- 
dog; however  zealous  and  faithful  he  may  have  been, 
and  however  much  valued  and  loved,  he  must  at  last 
be  put  to  death.  I  related  the  story  of  this  dog  to  a 
shepherd  in  the  very  district  where  Watch  had  lived  and 
served  his  master  so  well — one  who  has  been  head- 
shepherd  for  upwards  of  forty  years  at  Imber  Court, 
the  principal  farm  at  the  small  downland  village  of 
Imber.  He  told  me  that  during  all  his  shepherding  years 
he  had  never  owned  a  dog  which  had  passed  out  of  his 
hands  to  another ;  every  dog  had  been  acquired  as  a  pup 
and  trained  by  himself;  and  he  had  been  very  fond  of 
his  dogs,  but  had  always  been  compelled  to  have  them 
shot  in  the  end.  Not  because  he  would  have  found  them 
too  great  a  burden  when  they  had  become  too  old  and 


172 


A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 


their  senses  decayed,  but  because  it  was  painful  to  see 
them  in  their  decline,  perpetually  craving  to  be  at  their 
old  work  with  the  sheep,  incapable  of  doing  it  any  longer, 
yet  miserable  if  kept  from  it. 


ON  OVARD 


CHAPTER   XV 


Concerning  Cats 

A  cat  that  caught  trout — Cat  killed  by  a  passing  train — 
—  Gip's  history  and  wildness  —  Gipsies'  cats  —  Sir 
Three  cats — A  cat's  disposition — A  notable  rat-killer 
Henry  Wyatt's  cat — A  partridge-hunting  cat — A  cat 
that  brought  in  rabbits — Story  of  a  Fonthill  Bishop 
cat  —  An  eccentric  farmer  and  his  eleven  cats  —  A 
child  and  her  kittens — The  cat's  fatal  weakness — 
Anecdotes 

One  of  the  shepherd's  most  interesting  memories  of  his 
Doveton  period  was  of  a  cat  they  possessed,  which  was 
greatly  admired.  He  was  a  very  large,  handsome,  finely 
marked  tabby,  with  a  thick  coat,  and  always  appeared 
very  well  nourished  but  never  wanted  to  be  fed.  He 
was  a  nice-tempered,  friendly  animal,  and  whenever  he 
came  in  he  appeared  pleased  at  seeing  the  inmates  of 
the  house,  and  would  go  from  one  to  another,  rubbing  his 

173 


174  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

sides  against  their  legs  and  purring  aloud  with  satisfac- 
tion. Then  they  would  give  him  food,  and  he  would 
take  a  morsel  or  two  or  lap  up  as  much  milk  as  would 
fill  a  teaspoon  and  leave  the  rest.  He  was  not  hungry, 
and  it  always  appeared,  they  said,  as  if  he  smelt  at  or 
tasted  the  food  they  put  down  for  him  just  to  please 
them.  Everybody  in  the  village  admired  their  cat  for 
his  great  size,  his  beauty,  and  gentle,  friendly  disposition, 
but  how  he  fed  himself  was  a  mystery  to  all,  since  no 
one  had  ever  detected  him  trying  to  catch  anything  out 
of  doors.  In  that  part  of  the  Wylye  valley  there  were 
no  woods  for  him  to  hunt  in ;  they  also  noticed  that  when, 
out  of  doors,  the  small  birds,  anxious  and  angered  at 
his  presence,  would  flit,  uttering  their  cries,  close  to  him, 
he  paid  no  attention.  The  only  thing  they  discovered 
about  his  outdoor  life  by  watching  him  was  that  he  had 
the  habit  of  going  to  the  railway  track,  then  recently 
constructed,  from  Westbury  to  Salisbury,  which  ran 
near  their  cottage,  and  would  there  seat  himself  on  one 
of  the  rails  and  remain  for  a  long  time  gazing  fixedly 
before  him  as  if  he  found  it  a  pleasure  to  keep  his  eyes 
on  the  long,  glittering  metal  line. 

At  the  back  of  the  cottage  there  was  a  piece  of  waste 
ground  extending  to  the  river,  with  a  small,  old,  ruinous 
barn  standing  on  it  a  few  yards  from  the  bank.  Between 
the  barn  and  the  stream  the  ground  was  overgrown  with 
rank  weeds,  and  here  one  day  Caleb  came  by  chance  upon 
his  cat  eating  something  among  the  weeds — a  good-sized 
fresh-caught  trout !  On  examining  the  ground  he  found 
it  littered  with  the  heads,  fins,  and  portions  of  backbones 
of  the  trout  their  cat  had  been  feeding  on  every  day  since 
they  had  been  in  possession  of  him.    They  did  not  destroy 


CONCERNING    CATS  175 

their  favourite,  nor  tell  anyone  of  their  discovery,  but 
they  watched  him  and  found  that  it  was  his  habit  to 
bring  a  trout  every  day  to  that  spot,  but  how  he  caught 
his  fish  was  never  known. 

Eventually  their  cat  came  to  a  tragic  end,  as  all  Wylye 
anglers  will  be  pleased  to  hear.  He  was  found  on  the 
railway  track,  at  the  spot  where  he  had  the  habit  of 
sitting,  crushed  as  flat  as  a  pancake.  It  was  thought 
that  while  sitting  on  the  rail  in  his  usual  way  he  had 
become  so  absorbed  at  the  sight  of  the  straight,  shining 
line  that  the  noise  and  vibration  of  the  approaching  train 
failed  to  arouse  him  in  time  to  save  himself.  It  seemed 
strange  to  them  that  a  creature  so  very  much  alive  and 
quick  to  escape  danger  should  have  met  its  death  in  this 
way;  and  what  added  to  the  wonder  was  that  another 
cat  of  the  village  was  found  on  the  line  crushed  by  a 
train  shortly  afterwards.  Probably  the  sight  of  the  shin- 
ing rail  gazed  at  too  long  and  fixedly  had  produced  a 
hypnotic  effect  on  the  animal's  brain  and  made  it  power- 
less to  escape. 

It  is  rather  an  odd  coincidence  that  in  the  village  inn 
where  I  am  writing  a  portion  of  this  book,  including  the 
present  chapter,  there  should  be  three  cats,  unlike  one 
another  in  appearance  and  habits  as  three  animals  of 
different  and  widely  separated  species,  one  of  them  with 
a  great  resemblance  to  the  shepherd's  picture  of  his 
Doveton  animal.  All  three  were  strays,  which  the  land- 
lady, who  has  a  tender  heart,  took  in  when  they  were 
starving,  and  made  pets  of;  and  all  are  beautiful.  One 
has  Persian  blood  in  him ;  a  long-haired,  black  and  brown 
animal  with  gold-coloured  eyes;  playful  as  a  kitten, 
incessantly  active,  fond  of  going  for  a  walk  with  some 


176 


A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 


inmate  of  the  house,  and  when  no  one — cat  or  human 
being — will  have  any  more  of  him  you  will  see  him  in 
the  garden  stalking  a  fly,  or  lying  on  his  back  on  the 
ground  under  a  beech-tree  striking  with  his  claws  or 
catching  at  something  invisible  in  the  air — motes  in  the 
sunbeam.     The  second  is  a  large,  black  cat  with  white 


^^     V 


WJMTERBOCIl>m  Bi4RLS 


collar  and  muzzle  and  sea-green  eyes,  and  is  of  an  indo- 
lent, luxurious  disposition,  lying  coiled  up  by  the  hour 
on  the  most  comfortable  cushion  it  can  find.  The  last 
is  Gip,  a  magnificent  creature  a  third  bigger  than  an 
averaged-sized  cat — as  large  and  powerfully  built  as  the 
British  wild  cat,  a  tabby  with  opaline  eyes,  which  show 
a  pale  green  colour  in  some  lights.  These  singular  eyes, 
when  I  first  saw  this  animal,  almost  startled  me  with 
their  wild,  savage  expression;  nor  was  it  a  mere  decep- 
tive appearance,  as  I  soon  found.  I  never  looked  at  this 
animal  without  finding  these  panther  or  lynx  eyes  fixed 


CONCERNING    CATS  177 

with  a  fierce  intensity  on  me,  and  no  sooner  would  I 
look  towards  him  than  he  would  crouch  down,  flatten 
his  ears,  and  continue  to  watch  my  every  movement  as 
if  apprehending  a  sudden  attack  on  his  life.  It  was 
many  days  before  he  allowed  me  to  come  near  him  with- 
out bounding  away  and  vanishing,  and  not  for  two  or 
three  weeks  would  he  suffer  me  to  put  a  hand  on  him. 

But  the  native  wildness  and  suspicion  in  him  could 
never  be  wholly  overcome;  it  continued  to  show  itself 
on  occasions  even  after  I  had  known  him  for  months, 
and  had  won  his  confidence,  and  when  it  seemed  that, 
in  his  wild  cat,  conditional  way,  he  had  accepted  my 
friendship.  He  became  lame,  having  injured  one  of  his 
forelegs  while  hunting,  and  as  the  weather  was  cold 
he  was  pleased  to  spend  his  inactive  and  suffering  time 
on  the  hearth-rug  in  my  sitting-room.  I  found  that 
rubbing  warm,  melted  butter  on  his  injured  leg  appeared 
to  give  him  relief,  and  after  the  massaging  and  buttering 
he  would  lick  the  leg  vigorously  for  ten  or  fifteen  minutes, 
occasionally  purring  with  satisfaction.  Yet  if  I  made 
any  sudden  movement,  or  rustled  the  paper  in  my  hand, 
he  would  instantly  spring  up  from  his  cushion  at  my  feet 
and  dart  away  to  the  door  to  make  his  escape;  then, 
finding  the  door  closed,  he  would  sit  down,  recover  his 
domesticity  and  return  to  my  feet. 

Yet  this  cat  had  been  taken  in  as  a  kitten  and  had 
already  lived  some  two  or  three  years  in  the  house,  seeing 
many  people  and  fed  regularly  with  the  others  every  day. 
It  is  not,  however,  very  rare  to  meet  with  a  cat  of  this 
disposition — the  cat  pure  and  simple,  as  nature  made 
it,  without  that  little  tameness  on  the  surface,  or  veneer 
of  domesticity  which  life  with  man  has  laid  on  it. 


178  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

Gip  is  the  most  inveterate  rat-killer  I  have  ever  known. 
He  is  never  seen  hunting  other  creatures,  not  even  mice, 
although  it  is  probable  that  he  does  kill  and  devour  them 
on  the  spot,  but  he  has  the  habit  of  bringing  in  the  rats 
he  captures;  and  as  a  day  seldom  passes  on  which  he  is 
not  seen  with  one,  and  as  sometimes  two  or  three  are 
brought  in  during  the  night,  he  cannot  destroy  fewer 
than  three  hundred  to  four  hundred  rats  in  the  year. 

Let  anyone  who  knows  the  destructive  powers  of  the 
rat  consider  what  that  means  in  an  igricultural  village, 
and  what  an  advantage  it  is  to  the  farmers  to  have  their 
rickyards  and  barns  policed  day  and  night  by  such  an 
animal.  For  the  whole  village  is  his  hunting-ground. 
His  owner  says  that  he  is  "worth  his  weight  in  gold." 
I  should  say  that  he  is  worth  much  more;  that  the 
equivalent  in  cash  of  his  weight  in  purest  gold,  though 
he  is  big  and  heavy,  would  not  be  more  than  the  value 
of  the  grain  and  other  foodstuffs  he  saves  from  destruc- 
tion in  a  single  year. 

He  invariably  brings  in  his  rats  alive  to  release  and 
play  with  them  in  an  old,  stone-paved  yard,  and  after 
a  little  play  he  kills  them,  and  if  they  are  full-grown 
he  leaves  them;  but  when  young  he  devours  them  or 
allows  the  other  cats  to  have  them. 

Gip  has  a  somewhat  remarkable  history.  The  village 
has  always  been  a  favourite  resort  of  gipsies,  and  it 
happened  that  once  when  a  party  of  gipsies  had  gone 
away  it  was  discovered  that  they  had  left  a  litter  of  six 
kittens  behind,  and  it  greatly  troubled  the  village  mind 
to  know  what  was  to  be  done  with  them.  "Why  didn't 
we  drown  them?  Oh,  no,  we  couldn't  do  that,"  they 
said,  "they  were  several  weeks  old  and  past  the  time  for 


CONCERNING    CATS  179 

drowning."  However,  some  one  who  kept  ferrets  turned 
up  and  kindly  said  he  would  take  them  to  give  to  his 
ferrets,  and  everybody  was  satisfied  to  have  the  matter 
disposed  of  in  that  way.  But  it  was  a  rather  disgusting 
way,  for  although  it  seems  quite  natural  to  give  little, 
living  rodents  to  ferrets  to  be  sucked  of  their  warm 
blood,  it  goes  against  one's  feelings  to  cast  young  cats 
to  the  pink-eyed  beast ;  for  the  cat  is  a  carnivorous  crea- 
ture, too,  and  not  only  so  but  is  infinitely  more  beautiful 
and  intelligent  than  the  ferret  and  higher  in  the  organic 
scale.  However,  these  ideas  did  not  prevail  in  the  village, 
and  the  six  kittens  were  taken;  but  they  proved  to  be 
exceedingly  vigorous  and  fierce  for  kittens,  as  if  they 
knew  what  was  going  to  be  done  to  them:  they  fought 
and  scratched,  and  eventually  two,  the  biggest  and  fiercest 
of  them,  succeeded  in  making  their  escape,  and  by  and 
by  one  of  them  was  found  on  the  premises  at  the  inn — 
a  refuge  for  all  creatures  in  distress — which  thereupon 
became  its  home. 

Gipsies,  I  was  told,  are  fond  of  keeping  cats,  and 
their  cats  are  supposed  to  be  the  best  ratters.  As  this 
was  news  to  me  I  inquired  of  some  gipsies  in  the  neigh- 
bourhood, and  they  told  me  that  it  was  true — they  loved 
cats.  They  love  lurchers,  too,  and  no  doubt  they  find 
cats  with  a  genius  for  hunting  very  profitable  pets.  But 
how  curiously  varied  hunting  cats  are  in  their  tastes! 
You  seldom  find  two  quite  alike.  I  have  described  one 
that  was  an  accomplished  trout-catcher,  in  spite  of  the 
ancient  Gaelic  proverb  and  universal  saying  that  the 
cat  loves  fish  but  fears  to  wet  its  feet;  also  another  who 
is  exclusively  a  rat-killer.  And  here  I  recall  an  old  story 
of  a  cat  (an  immortal  puss)  who  only  hunted  pigeons. 


180 


'A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 


This  tells  that  Sir  Henry  Wyatt  was  imprisoned  in  the 
Tower  of  London  by  Richard  III,  and  was  cruelly  treated, 
having  no  bed  to  sleep  on  in  his  cell  and  scarcely  food 
enough  to  keep  him  alive.  One  winter  night,  when  Jie 
was  half  dead  with  cold,  a  cat  appeared  in  his  cell,  having 
come  down  the  chimney,  and  was  very  friendly,  and 
slept  curled  up  on  his  chest,  thus  keeping  him  warm  all 
night.     In  the  morning  it  vanished  up  the  chimney,  but 


appeared  later  with  a  pigeon,  which  it  gave  to  Sir  Henry, 
and  then  again  departed.  When  the  jailer  appeared  and 
repeated  that  he  durst  not  bring  more  than  the  few  mor- 
sels of  food  provided.  Sir  Henry  then  asked,  "Wilt  thou 
dress  any  I  provide?"  This  the  jailer  promised  to  do, 
for  he  pitied  his  prisoner,  and  taking  the  pigeon  had 
it  dressed  and  cooked  for  him.  The  cat  continued  bring- 
ing pigeons  every  day,  and  the  jailer,  thinking  they  were 
sent  miraculously,  continued  to  cook  them,  so  that  Sir 
Henry  fared  well,  despite  the  order  which  Richard  gave 
later,  that  no  food  at  all  was  to  be  provided.     He  was 


CONCERNING    CATS  181 

getting  impatient  of  his  prisoner's  power  to  keep  alive 
on  very  little  food,  and  he  didn't  want  to  behead  him — 
he  wanted  him  to  die  naturally.  Thus  in  the  end  Sir 
Henry  outlived  the  tyrant  and  was  set  free,  and  the 
family  preserve  the  story  to  this  day.  It  is  classed  as 
folk-lore,  but  there  is  no  reason  to  prevent  one  from 
accepting  it  as  literal  truth. 

It  is  a  well-known  habit  of  some  hunting,  or  poaching, 
cats  to  bring  their  captives  to  their  master  or  mistress. 
I  have  met  with  scores — I  might  say  with  hundreds — 
of  such  cases.  I  remember  an  old  gaucho,  a  neighbour 
of  mine  in  South  America,  who  used  to  boast  that  he 
usually  had  a  spotted  tinamou — the  partridge  of  the 
pampas — for  his  dinner  every  day,  brought  in  by  his 
cat.  Even  in  England,  where  partridges  are  not  so 
abundant  or  easily  taken,  there  are  clever  partridge- 
hunting  cats.  I  remember  one,  a  very  fine  white  cat, 
owned  by  a  woodman  I  once  lodged  with  in  Savernake 
Forest,  who  w^as  in  the  habit  of  bringing  in  a  partridge 
and  would  place  it  on  the  kitchen  floor  and  keep  guard 
over  it  until  the  woodman's  wife  came  to  take  it  up  and 
put  it  away  for  the  Sunday's  dinner.  A  lady  friend 
told  me  of  a  cat  at  a  farm-house  where  she  was  staying 
during  the  summer  months,  which  became  attached  to 
her  and  was  constantly  bringing  her  young  rabbits.  They 
were  never  injured  but  held  firmly  by  the  skin  of  the 
neck.  The  lady  would  take  the  rabbit  gently  into  her 
hands  and  deposit  it  on  her  lap,  and  cover  it  over  with 
a  handkerchief  or  a  cloth,  and  pussy,  seeing  it  safe  in 
her  power,  would  then  go  away.  The  lady  would  then 
walk  away  to  a  distance  from  the  house  to  liberate  the 
little  trembler,  devoutly  wishing  that  this  too  affectionate 


182 


A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 


cat  would  get  over  the  delusion  that  such  gifts  were 
acceptable  to  her.  One  day  pussy  came  trotting  into  the 
drawing-room  with  a  stoat  in  his  mouth,  and  depositing 
it  on  the  carpet  by  the  side  of  her  chair  immediately 
turned  round  and  hastily  left  the  room.  The  stoat  was 
dead,  not  being  a  creature  that  could  easily  be  carried 
about  alive,  and  pussy,  having  other  matters  to  attend 


«ca 


-roV4NT« 
«it  jnt  nAVoat. 


to,  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  wait  to  see  her  present 
taken  up  and  carefully  deposited  in  her  mistress's  lap. 

Cases  of  this  kind  are  exceedingly  common,  and  the 
simple  explanation  is,  that  the  cat  is  not  quite  so  unsocial 
a  creature  as  some  naturalists  would  have  us  believe.  We 
may  say  that  in  this  respect  he  compares  badly  with  ele- 
phants, whales,  pigs,  seals,  cattle,  apes,  wolves,  dogs, 
and  other  large-brained  social  mammals;  but  he  does 
not  live  wholly  for  himself.  He  is  able  to  take  thought 
for  other  cats  and  for  his  human  companion — master 
hardly  seems  the  right  word  in  the  case  of  such  an  animal 


CONCERNING    CATS  183 

— who  is  doubtless  to  him  only  a  very  big  cat  that  walks 
erect  on  his  hind  legs.  I  must,  however,  relate  one  more 
instance  of  a  cat  who  hunted  for  others,  told  to  me  by 
a  very  aged  friend  of  mine,  a  native  of  Fonthill  Bishop, 
and  some  of  whose  early  memories  will  be  given  later  in 
the  chapter  entitled  "Old  Wiltshire  Days." 

When  she  was  a  young  motherless  girl  and  they  were 
very  poor  indeed,  her  father  being  incapacitated,  they 
had  a  cat  that  was  a  great  help  to  them;  a  large  black 
and  white  animal  who  spent  a  greater  part  of  his  time 
hunting  in  Fonthill  Abbey  woods,  and  who  was  always 
bringing  in  something  for  the  pot.  The  cat  was  attached 
to  her,  and  whatever  was  brought  in  was  for  her  exclu- 
sively, and  I  imagine  it  is  so  in  all  cases  in  which  a  cat 
has  the  custom  of  bringing  anything  it  catches  into  the 
house.  The  cat  mind  cannot  understand  a  division  of 
food.  It  does  not  and  cannot  share  a  mouse  or  bird  with 
another  cat,  and  when  it  gives  it  gives  the  whole  animal, 
and  to  one  person  alone.  When  the  cat  brought  a  rabbit 
home  he  would  not  come  into  the  kitchen  with  it  if  he 
saw  her  little  brother  or  any  other  person  there,  lest 
they  should  take  it  into  their  hands;  he  would  steal  off 
and  conceal  it  among  the  weeds  at  the  back  of  the  cot- 
tage, then  come  back  to  make  little  mewing  sounds  under- 
stood by  its  young  mistress,  and  she  would  thereupon 
follow  it  out  to  where  the  rabbit  was  hidden  and  take 
it  up,  and  the  cat  would  then  be  satisfied. 

The  cat  brought  her  rabbits  and  di-dappers,  as  she 
called  the  moorhen,  caught  in  the  sedges  by  the  lake  in 
the  park.  This  was  the  first  occasion  of  my  meeting 
with  this  name  for  a  bird,  but  it  comes  no  doubt  from 
dive-dapper,  an  old  English  vernacular  name  (found  in 


184  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

Shakespeare)  of  the  dabchick,  or  little  grebe.  Moorhens 
were  not  the  only  birds  it  captured:  on  two  or  three 
occasions  it  brought  in  a  partridge  and  on  one  occasion 
a  fish.  Whether  it  was  a  trout  or  not  she  could  not  say ; 
she  only  knew  that  she  cooked  and  ate  it  and  that  it  was 
very  good. 

One  day,  looking  out,  she  spied  her  cat  coming  home 
with  something  very  big,  something  it  had  caught  larger 
than  itself;  and  it  was  holding  its  head  very  high,  drag- 
ging its  burden  along  with  great  labour.  It  was  a  hare, 
and  she  ran  out  to  receive  it,  and  when  she  got  to  the 
cat  and  stooped  down  to  take  it  from  him  he  released  it 
too  soon,  for  it  was  uninjured,  and  away  it  bounded  and 
vanished  into  the  woods,  leaving  them  both  very  much 
astonished  and  disgusted. 

For  a  long  time  her  cat  managed  to  escape  the  poach- 
ing animal's  usual  fate  in  the  woods,  which  were  strictly 
preserved  then,  in  the  famous  Squire  Beckford's  day, 
as  they  are  now ;  but  a  day  arrived  when  it  came  hobbling 
in  with  a  broken  leg.  It  had  been  caught  in  a  steel  trap, 
and  some  person  who  was  not  a  keeper  had  found  and 
released  it.  She  washed  the  blood  off,  and  taking  it  on 
her  lap  put  the  bones  together  and  bound  up  the  broken 
limb  as  well  as  she  was  able,  and  the  bones  joined,  and 
before  very  long  the  cat  was  well  again.  And  no  sooner 
was  it  well  than  it  resumed  its  hunting  in  the  woods  and 
bringing  in  rabbits  and  di-dappers. 

But  alas,  it  had  but  nine  lives,  and  having  generously 
spent  them  all  in  the  service  of  Its  young  mistress  it 
came  to  its  end;  at  all  events  it  finally  disappeared, 
and  it  was  conjectured  that  a  keeper  had  succeeded  in 
killing  it. 


CONCERNING    CATS  185 

One  of  my  old  shepherd's  stories  about  strange  or 
eccentric  persons  he  had  known  during  his  long  life  was 
of  a  gentleman  farmer,  an  old  bachelor,  in  the  parish  of 
Winterbourne  Bishop,  who  had  (for  a  man)  an  excessive 
fondness  for  cats  and  who  always  kept  eleven  of  these 
animals  as  pets.  For  some  mysterious  reason  that  num- 
ber was  religiously  adhered  to.  The  farmer  was  fond 
of  riding  on  the  downs,  and  was  invariably  attended  by 
a  groom  in  livery — a  crusty  old  fellow;  and  one  of  this 
man's  duties  was  to  attend  to  his  master's  eleven  cats. 
They  had  to  be  fed  at  their  proper  time,  in  their  own 
dining-room,  eating  their  meals  from  a  row  of  eleven 
plates  on  a  long,  low  table  made  expressly  for  them. 
They  v^^ere  taught  to  go  each  one  to  his  own  place  and 
plate,  and  not  to  get  on  to  the  table,  but  to  eat  "like  Chris- 
tians," without  quarrelling  or  interfering  with  their 
neighbours  on  either  side.  And,  as  a  rule,  they  all  be- 
haved properly,  except  one  big  tom-cat,  who  developed 
so  greedy,  spiteful,  and  tyrannical  a  disposition  that  there 
was  never  a  meal  but  he  upset  the  harmony  and  brought 
it  to  a  disorderly  end,  v^^ith  spittings,  snarlings,  and 
scratchings.  Day  after  day  the  old  groom  went  to  his 
master  with  a  long,  dolorous  plaint  of  this  cat's  intoler- 
able behaviour,  but  the  farmer  would  not  consent  to  its 
removal,  or  to  any  strong  measures  being  taken;  kind- 
ness combined  with  patience  and  firmness,  he  maintained, 
would  at  last  win  even  this  troublesome  animal  to  a  better 
mind.  But  in  the  end  he,  too,  grew  tired  of  this  incor- 
rigible cat,  who  was  now  making  the  others  spiteful  and 
quarrelsome  by  his  example;  and  one  day,  hearing  a 
worse  account  than  usual,  he  got  into  a  passion,  and 
taking  a  loaded  gun  handed  it  to  the  groom  with  orders 


186  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

to  shoot  the  cat  on  the  spot  on  the  very  next  occasion 
of  it  misbehaving,  so  that  not  only  would  they  be  rid  of 
it  but  its  death  in  that  way  would  serve  as  a  warning 
to  the  others.  At  the  very  next  meal  the  bad  cat  got  up 
the  usual  row,  and  by  and  by  they  were  all  fighting  and 
tearing  each  other  on  the  table,  and  the  groom,  seizing 
the  gun,  sent  a  charge  of  shot  into  the  thickest  of  the 
fight,  shooting  three  of  the  cats  dead.  But  the  author 
of  all  the  mischief  escaped  without  so  much  as  a  pellet! 
The  farmer  was  in  a  great  rage  at  this  disastrous  blun- 
dering, and  gave  notice  to  his  groom  on  the  spot;  but  the 
man  was  an  old  and  valued  servant,  and  by  and  by  he 
forgave  him,  and  the  quarrelsome  animal  having  been 
got  rid  of,  and  four  fresh  cats  obtained  to  fill  up  the  gaps, 
peace  was  restored. 

I  must  now  return  to  the  subject  of  the  cat  tragedy 
related  in  the  early  part  of  this  chapter — Bawcombe's 
cat  at  Doveton,  who  had  the  habit  of  sitting  on  a  rail 
of  the  line  which  runs  through  the  vale,  and  was  even- 
tually killed  by  a  train.  So  strange  a  story — for  how 
strange  it  seems  that  an  animal  of  so  cautious  and  well- 
balanced  a  mind,  so  capable  above  all  others  of  saving 
itself  in  difficult  and  dangerous  emergencies,  should  have 
met  its  end  in  such  a  way! — might  very  well  have  sug- 
gested something  behind  the  mere  fact,  some  mysterious 
weakness  in  the  animal  similar  to  that  which  Herodotus 
relates  of  the  Egyptian  cat  in  its  propensity  of  rushing 
into  the  fire  when  a  house  was  burning  and  thus  destroying 
itself.  Yet  no  such  idea  came  into  my  mind:  it  was  just 
a  "strange  fact,"  an  accident  In  the  life  of  an  individual, 
and  after  telling  it  I  passed  on,  thinking  no  more  about 


CONCERNING    CATS  187 

the  subject,  only  to  find  long  months  afterwards,  by  the 
merest  chance,  that  I  had  been  very  near  to  a  discovery 
of  the  greatest  significance  and  interest  in  the  life-history 
of  the  animal. 

It  came  about  in  the  following  way.  I  was  on  the 
platform  of  a  station  on  the  South-Western  line  from 
Salisbury  to  Yeovil,  waiting  for  my  train,  when  a  pretty 
little  kitten  came  out  of  the  stationmaster's  house  at  the 
end  of  the  platform,  and  I  picked  it  up.  Then  a  child, 
a  wee  girlie  of  about  five,  came  out  to  claim  her  pet,  and 
we  got  into  a  talk  about  the  kitten.  She  was  pleased  at 
its  being  admired,  and  saying  she  would  show  me  the 
other  one,  ran  in  and  came  out  with  a  black  kitten  in  her 
arms.  I  duly  admired  this  one  too.  "But,"  I  said,  "they 
won't  let  you  keep  both,  because  then  there  would  be  too 
many  cats.'* 

"No — only  two,"  she  returned, 

"Three,  with  their  mother." 

"No,  they  haven't  got  a  mother — she  was  killed  on 
the  line." 

I  remembered  the  shepherd's  cat,  and  by  and  by  finding 
the  stationmaster  I  questioned  him  about  the  cat  that 
had  been  killed. 

"Oh,  yes,"  he  said,  "cats  are  always  getting  killed 
on  the  line — we  can  never  keep  one  long.  I  don't  know 
if  they  try  to  cross  the  line  or  how  it  is.  One  of  the 
porters  saw  the  last  one  get  killed  and  will  tell  you  just 
how  it  happened." 

I  found  the  porter,  and  his  account  was  that  he  saw 
the  cat  on  the  line,  standing  with  its  forepaws  on  a  rail 
when  an  express  train  was  coming.  He  called  to  the 
cat  two  or  three  times,  then  yelled  at  it  to  frighten  It  oflF, 


188  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

but  it  never  moved;  it  stared  as  if  dazed  at  the  coming 
train,  and  was  struck  on  the  head  and  knocked  dead. 

This  story  set  me  making  inquiries  at  other  village 
stations,  and  at  other  villages  where  there  are  no  stations, 
but  close  to  which  the  line  runs  in  the  Wylye  vale  and 
where  there  is  a  pointsman.  I  was  told  that  cats  are 
very  often  found  killed  on  the  line,  in  some  instances 
crushed  as  if  they  had  been  lying  or  sitting  on  a  rail  when 
the  train  went  over  them.  They  get  dazed,  the  men  said, 
and  could  not  save  themselves. 

I  was  also  told  that  rabbits  were  sometimes  killed  and, 
more  frequently,  hares.  "I've  had  several  hares  from 
the  line,"  one  man  told  me.  He  said  that  he  had  seen 
a  hare  running  before  a  train,  and  thought  that  in  most 
cases  the  hare  kept  straight  on  until  it  was  run  down 
and  killed.  But  not  in  every  case,  as  he  had  actually 
seen  one  hare  killed,  and  in  this  case  the  hare  sat  up 
and  remained  staring  at  the  coming  train  until  it  was 
struck. 

It  cannot  be  doubted,  I  think,  that  the  cat  is  subject 
to  this  strange  weakness.  It  is  not  a  case  of  "losing  its 
head"  like  a  cyclist  amidst  the  traffic  in  a  thoroughfare, 
or  of  miscalculating  the  speed  of  a  coming  train  and 
attempting  too  late  to  cross  the  line.  The  sight  of  the 
coming  train  paralyses  its  will,  or  hypnotizes  it,  and  it 
cannot  save  itself. 

Now  the  dog,  a  less  well-balanced  animal  than  the 
cat  and  inferior  in  many  ways,  has  no  such  failing  and 
is  killed  by  a  train  purely  through  blundering.  While 
engaged  in  making  these  inquiries,  a  Wiltshire  woman 
told  me  of  an  adventure  she  had  with  her  dog,  a  fox- 
terrier.    She  had  just  got  over  the  line  at  a  level  crossing 


CONCERNING    CATS  189 

when  the  gates  swung  to,  and  looking  for  her  dog  she 
saw  him  absorbed  in  a  smell  he  had  discovered  on  the 
other  side  of  the  line.  An  express  train  was  just  coming, 
and  screaming  to  her  dog  she  saw  him  make  a  dash  to 
get  across  just  as  the  engine  came  abreast  of  her.  The 
dog  had  vanished  from  sight,  but  when  the  whole  train 
had  passed  up  he  jumped  from  between  the  rails  where 
he  had  been  crouching  and  bounded  across  to  her,  quite 
unhurt.  He  had  dived  under  the  train  behind  the  engine, 
and  waited  there  till  it  had  gone  by! 

It  is,  however,  a  fact  that  not  all  the  cats  killed  on 
the  line  have  been  hypnotized  or  dazed  at  the  sight  of 
the  coming  train ;  undoubtedly  some  do  meet  their  death 
through  attempting  to  cross  the  line  before  a  coming 
train.  At  all  events,  I  heard  of  one  such  case  from  a 
person  who  had  witnessed  it.  It  was  at  a  spot  where  a 
small  group  of  workmen's  cottages  stands  close  to  the 
line  at  a  village ;  here  I  was  told  that  "several  cats"  got 
killed  on  the  line  every  year,  and  as  the  man  who  gave 
me  the  information  had  seen  a  cat  running  across  the 
line  before  a  train  and  getting  killed  it  was  assumed  by 
the  cottagers  that  it  was  so  in  all  cases. 


CHAPTER   XVI 


The  Ellerbys  of  Doveton 

The  Bawcombes  at  Doveton  Farm — Caleb  finds  favour 
with  his  master — Mrs.  Ellerby  and  the  shepherd's 
wife — The  passion  of  a  childless  wife — The  curse — 
A  story  of  the  "mob" — The  attack  on  the  farm — A 
man  transported  for  life — The  hundred  and  ninth 
Psalm — The  end  of  the  Ellerbys 

Caleb  and  his  wife  invariably  spoke  of  their  time  at 
Doveton  Farm  in  a  way  which  gave  one  the  idea  that 
they  regarded  it  as  the  most  important  period  of  their 
lives.  It  had  deeply  impressed  them,  and  doubtless  it 
was  a  great  change  for  them  to  leave  their  native  village 
for  the  first  time  in  their  lives  and  go  long  miles  from 
home  among  strangers  to  serve  a  new  master.  Above 
everything  they  felt  leaving  the  old  father  who  was  angry 
with  them,  and  had  gone  to  the  length  of  disowning  them 

190 


THE    ELLERBYS    OF    DOVETON     191 

for  taking  such  a  step.  But  there  was  something  besides 
all  this  which  had  served  to  give  Doveton  an  enduring 
place  in  their  memories,  and  after  many  talks  with  the 
old  couple  about  their  Warminster  days  I  formed  the  idea 
that  it  was  more  to  them  than  any  other  place  where  they 
had  lived,  because  of  a  personal  feeling  they  cherished 
for  their  master  and  mistress  there. 

Hitherto  Caleb  had  been  in  the  service  of  men  who 
were  but  a  little  way  removed  in  thought  and  feeling 
from  those  they  employed.  They  were  mostly  small  men, 
born  and  bred  in  the  parish,  some  wholly  self-made,  with 
no  interest  or  knowledge  of  anything  outside  their  own 
affairs,  and  almost  as  far  removed  as  the  labourers  them- 
selves from  the  ranks  above.  The  Ellerbys  were  of 
another  stamp,  or  a  different  class.  If  not  a  gentleman, 
Mr.  Ellerby  was  very  like  one  and  was  accustomed  to 
associate  with  gentlemen.  He  was  a  farmer,  descended 
from  a  long  line  of  farmers;  but  he  owned  his  own 
land,  and  was  an  educated  and  travelled  man,  considered 
wealthy  for  a  farmer ;  at  all  events  he  was  able  to  keep 
his  carriage  and  riding  and  hunting  horses  in  his  stables, 
and  he  was  regarded  as  the  best  breeder  of  sheep  in  the 
district.  He  lived  in  a  good  house,  which  with  its  pic- 
tures and  books  and  beautiful  decorations  and  furni- 
ture appeared  to  their  simple  minds  extremely  luxurious. 
This  atmosphere  was  somewhat  disconcerting  to  them 
at  first,  for  although  he  knew  his  own  value,  priding 
himself  on  being  a  "good  shepherd,"  Caleb  had  up  till 
now  served  with  farmers  who  were  in  a  sense  on  an 
equality  with  him,  and  they  understood  him  and  he  them. 
But  in  a  short  time  the  feeling  of  strangeness  vanished : 
personally,  as  a  fellow-man,  his  master  soon  grew  to  be 


192  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

more  to  him  than  any  farmer  he  had  yet  been  with.  And 
he  saw  a  good  deal  of  his  master.  Mr.  Ellerby  cultivated 
his  acquaintance,  and,  as  we  have  seen,  got  into  the 
habit  of  seeking  him  out  and  talking  to  him  even  when 
he  was  at  a  distance  out  on  the  down  with  his  flock. 
And  Caleb  could  not  but  see  that  in  this  respect  he  was 
preferred  above  the  other  men  employed  on  the  farm — 
that  he  had  "found  favour"  in  his  master's  eyes. 

When  he  had  told  me  that  story  about  Watch  and 
the  corn-crake,  it  stuck  in  my  mind,  and  on  the  first 
opportunity  I  went  back  to  that  subject  to  ask  what  it 
really  was  that  made  his  master  act  in  such  an  extraor- 
dinary manner — to  go  out  on  a  pouring  wet  day  in  a 
summer  suit  and  straw  hat,  and  walk  a  mile  or  two  just 
to  stand  there  in  the  rain  talking  to  him  about  nothing 
in  particular.  What  secret  trouble  had  he — was  it  that 
his  affairs  were  in  a  bad  way,  or  was  he  quarrelling  with 
his  wife?  No,  nothing  of  the  kind,  it  was  a  long  story 
— this  secret  trouble  of  the  Ellerbys,  and  with  his  uncon- 
querable reticence  in  regard  to  other  people's  private 
affairs  he  would  have  passed  it  off  with  a  few  general 
remarks. 

But  there  was  his  old  wife  listening  to  us,  and,  woman- 
like, eager  to  discuss  such  a  subject,  she  would  not  let  It 
pass.  She  would  tell  it  and  would  not  be  silenced  by 
him:  they  were  all  dead  and  gone — why  should  I  not 
be  told  if  I  wanted  to  hear  It?  And  so  with  a  word 
put  in  here  and  there  by  him  when  she  talked,  and  with 
a  good  many  words  interposed  by  her  when  he  took  up 
the  tale,  they  unfolded  the  story,  which  was  very  long 
as  they  told  it  and  must  be  given  briefly  here. 

It  happened  that  when  the  Bawcombes  settled  at  Dove- 


THE    ELLERBYS    OF    DOVETON     193 

ton,  just  as  Mr.  Ellerby  had  taken  to  the  shepherd,  making 
a  friend  of  him,  so  Mrs.  Ellerby  took  to  the  shepherd's 
wife,  and  fell  into  the  habit  of  paying  frequent  visits  to 
her  in  her  cottage.  She  was  a  very  handsome  woman, 
of  a  somewhat  stately  presence,  dignified  in  manner,  and 
she  wore  her  abundant  hair  in  curls  hanging  on  each  side 
to  her  shoulders — a  fashion  common  at  that  time.  From 
the  first  she  appeared  to  take  a  particular  interest  in  the 
Bawcombes,  and  they  could  not  but  notice  that  she  was 
more  gracious  and  friendly  towards  them  than  to  the 
others  of  their  station  on  the  farm.  The  Bawcombes 
had  three  children  then,  aged  6,  4,  and  2  years  respec- 
tively, all  remarkably  healthy,  with  rosy  cheeks  and  black 
eyes,  and  they  were  merry-tempered  little  things.  Mrs. 
Ellerby  appeared  much  taken  with  the  children;  praised 
their  mother  for  always  keeping  them  so  clean  and  nicely 
dressed,  and  wondered  how  she  could  manage  it  on  their 
small  earnings.  The  carter  and  his  wife  lived  In  a  cottage 
close  by,  and  they,  too,  had  three  little  children,  and  next 
to  the  carter's  was  the  bailiff's  cottage,  and  he,  too,  was 
married  and  had  children;  but  Mrs.  Ellerby  never  went 
into  their  cottages,  and  the  shepherd  and  his  wife  con- 
cluded that  It  was  because  In  both  cases  the  children 
were  rather  puny,  sickly-looking  little  things  and  were 
never  very  clean.  The  carter's  wife,  too,  was  a  slatternly 
woman.  One  day  when  Mrs.  Ellerby  came  in  to  see 
Mrs.  Bawcombe  the  carter's  wife  was  just  going  out 
of  the  door,  and  Mrs.  Ellerby  appeared  displeased,  and 
before  leaving  she  said,  "I  hope,  Mrs.  Bawcombe,  you 
are  not  going  to  mix  too  freely  with  your  neighbours 
or  let  your  children  go  too  much  with  them  and  fall  into 
their  ways."    They  also  observed  that  when  she  passed 


194  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

their  neighbours'  children  in  the  lane  she  spoke  no  word 
and  appeared  not  to  see  them.  Yet  she  was  kind  to  them 
too,  and  whenever  she  brought  a  big  parcel  of  cakes, 
fruit,  and  sweets  for  the  children,  which  she  often  did, 
she  would  tell  the  shepherd's  wife  to  divide  it  into  three 
lots,  one  for  her  own  children  and  the  others  for  those 
of  her  two  neighbours.  It  was  clear  to  see  that  Mrs. 
Ellerby  had  grown  fond  of  her  children,  especially  of 
the  eldest,  the  little  rosy-cheeked  six-year-old  boy.  Sitting 
in  the  cottage  she  would  call  him  to  her  side  and  would 
hold  his  hand  while  conversing  with  his  mother;  she 
would  also  bare  the  child's  arm  just  for  the  pleasure  of 
rubbing  it  with  her  hand  and  clasping  it  round  with  her 
fingers,  and  sometimes  when  caressing  the  child  in  this 
way  she  would  turn  her  face  aside  to  hide  the  tears  that 
dropped  from  her  eyes. 

She  had  no  child  of  her  own — the  one  happiness  which 
she  and  her  husband  desired  above  all  things.  Six  times 
in  their  ten  married  years  they  had  hoped  and  rejoiced, 
although  with  fear  and  trembling,  that  their  prayer  would 
be  answered,  but  in  vain — every  child  born  to  them  came 
lifeless  into  the  world.  "And  so  'twould  always  be,  for 
sure,"  said  the  villagers,  "because  of  the  curse." 

For  it  was  a  cause  of  wonder  to  the  shepherd  and 
his  wife  that  this  couple,  so  strong  and  healthy,  so  noble- 
looking,  so  anxious  to  have  children,  should  have  been 
so  unfortunate,  and  still  the  villagers  repeated  that  it 
was  the  curse  that  was  on  them. 

This  made  the  shepherd  angry.  "What  be  you  saying 
about  a  curse  that  is  on  them? — a  good  man  and  a  good 
woman !"  he  would  exclaim,  and  taking  up  his  crook  go 
out  and  leave  them  to  their  gossip.     He  would  not  ask 


THE    ELLERBYS    OF    DOVETON     195 

them  what  they  meant;  he  refused  to  listen  when  they 
tried  to  tell  him ;  but  in  the  end  he  could  not  help  know- 
ing, since  the  idea  had  become  a  fixed  one  in  the  minds 
of  all  the  villagers,  and  he  could  not  keep  it  out.  "Look 
at  them,"  the  gossipers  would  say,  "as  fine  a  couple  as 
you  ever  saw,  and  no  child ;  and  look  at  his  two  brothers, 
fine,  big,  strong,  well-set-up  men,  both  married  to  fine 
healthy  women,  and  never  a  child  living  to  any  of  them. 
And  the  sisters  unmarried!  'Tis  the  curse  and  nothing 
else." 

The  curse  had  been  uttered  against  Mr.  Ellerby's 
father,  who  was  in  his  prime  in  the  year  1831  at  the 
time  of  the  "mob,"  when  the  introduction  of  labour- 
saving  machinery  in  agriculture  sent  the  poor  farm- 
labourers  mad  all  over  England.  Wheat  was  at  a  high 
price  at  that  time,  and  the  farmers  were  exceedingly 
prosperous,  but  they  paid  no  more  than  seven  shilHngs 
a  week  to  their  miserable  labourers.  And  if  they  were 
half -starved  when  there  was  work  for  all,  when  the  corn 
was  reaped  with  sickles,  what  would  their  condition  be 
when  reaping  machines  and  other  new  implements  of 
husbandry  came  into  use?  They  would  not  suffer  it; 
they  would  gather  in  bands  everywhere  and  destroy  the 
machinery,  and  being  united  they  would  be  irresistible; 
and  so  it  came  about  that  there  were  risings  or  "mobs" 
all  over  the  land. 

Mr.  Ellerby,  the  most  prosperous  and  enterprising 
farmer  in  the  parish,  had  been  the  first  to  introduce  the 
new  methods.  He  did  not  believe  that  the  people  would 
rise  against  him,  for  he  well  knew  that  he  was  regarded 
as  a  Just  and  kind  man  and  was  even  loved  by  his  own 
labourers,  but  even  if  it  had  not  been  so  he  would  not 


196  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

have  hesitated  to  carry  out  his  resolution,  as  he  was  a 
high-spirited  man.  But  one  day  the  villagers  got  together 
and  came  unexpectedly  to  his  barns,  v^here  they  set  to 
work  to  destroy  his  new  threshing  machine.  When  he 
was  told  he  rushed  out  and  went  in  hot  haste  to  the  scene, 
and  as  he  drew  near  some  person  in  the  crowd  threw 
a  heavy  hammer  at  him,  which  struck  him  on  the  head 
and  brought  him  senseless  to  the  ground. 

He  was  not  seriously  injured,  but  when  he  recovered 
the  work  of  destruction  had  been  done  and  the  men 
had  gone  back  to  their  homes,  and  no  one  could  say  who 
had  led  them  and  who  had  thrown  the  hammer.  But 
by  and  by  the  police  discovered  that  the  hammer  was 
the  property  of  a  shoemaker  in  the  village,  and  he  was 
arrested  and  charged  with  injuring  with  intent  to  murder. 
Tried  with  many  others  from  other  villages  in  the  district 
at  the  Salisbury  Assizes,  he  was  found  guilty  and  sen- 
tenced to  transportation  for  life.  Yet  the  Doveton  shoe- 
maker was  known  to  every  one  as  a  quiet,  inoffensive 
young  man,  and  to  the  last  he  protested  his  innocence, 
for  although  he  had  gone  with  the  others  to  the  farm 
he  had  not  taken  the  hammer  and  was  guiltless  of  having 
thrown  It. 

Two  years  after  he  had  been  sent  away  Mr.  Ellerby 
received  a  letter  with  an  Australian  postmark  on  it,  but 
opening  it  found  nothing  but  a  long  denunciatory  passage 
from  the  Bible  enclosed,  with  no  name  or  address.  Mr. 
Ellerby  was  much  disturbed  in  his  mind,  and  instead  of 
burning  the  paper  and  holding  his  peace,  he  kept  it  and 
spoke  about  it  to  this  person  and  that,  and  every  one 
went  to  his  Bible  to  find  out  what  message  the  poor 
shoemaker  had  sent,  for  it  had  been  discovered  that  it 


THE    ELLERBYS    OF    DOVETON     197 

was  the  one  hundred  and  nintli  Psalm,  or  a  great  portion 
of  it,  and  this  is  what  they  read: — 

"Hold  not  Thy  peace,  O  God  of  my  praise;  for  the 
mouth  of  the  wicked  and  the  mouth  of  the  deceitful  are 
opened  against  me:  they  have  spoken  against  me  with 
a  lying  tongue.  They  compassed  me  about  also  with 
words  of  hatred;  and  fought  against  me  without  a  cause. 
And  they  have  rewarded  me  evil  for  good,  and  hatred 
for  my  love. 

"Set  Thou  a  wicked  man  over  him;  and  let  Satan 
stand  at  his  right  hand. 

"When  he  shall  be  judged,  let  him  be  condemned ;  and 
let  his  prayer  become  sin. 

"Let  his  days  be  few;  and  another  take  his  office. 

"Let  his  children  be  fatherless,  and  his  wife  a  widow. 

"Let  his  children  be  continually  vagabonds,  and  beg; 
let  them  seek  their  bread  also  out  of  their  desolate  places. 

"Let  there  be  none  to  extend  mercy  unto  him ;  neither 
let  there  be  any  to  favour  his  fatherless  children. 

"Let  his  posterity  be  cut  off;  and  in  the  generation 
following  let  their  name  be  blotted  out. 

"Let  the  iniquity  of  his  fathers  be  remembered  with 
the  Lord;  and  let  not  the  sin  of  his  mother  be  blotted 
out. 

"Let  them  be  before  the  Lord  continually,  that  he  may 
cut  off  the  memory  of  them  from  the  earth. 

"Because  that  he  remembered  not  to  show  mercy,  but 
persecuted  the  poor  and  needy  man,  that  he  might  even 
slay  the  broken  in  heart. 

"As  he  loved  cursing,  so  let  it  come  unto  him;  as  he 
delighted  not  in  blessing,  so  let  it  be  far  from  him. 

"As  he  clothed  himself  with  cursing  like  as  with  a 


198  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

garment,  so  let  it  come  into  his  bowels  like  water,  and 
like  oil  into  his  bones. 

"Let  it  be  unto  him  as  a  garment  which  covereth  him, 
and  for  a  girdle  wherewith  he  is  girded  continually. 

"But  do  Thou  for  me,  O  God  the  Lord,  for  Thy 
name's  sake.  For  I  am  poor  and  needy,  and  my  heart 
is  wounded  within  me. 

"I  am  gone  like  the  shadow  when  it  declineth:  I  am 
tossed  up  and  down  as  the  locust. 

"My  knees  are  weak  through  fasting;  and  my  flesh 
faileth  of  fatness. 

"Help  me,  O  Lord  my  God ;  that  they  may  know  that 
this  is  Thy  hand;  that  Thou,  Lord,  hast  done  it." 

From  that  time  the  hundred  and  ninth  Psalm  became 
familiar  to  the  villagers,  and  there  were  probably  not 
many  who  did  not  get  it  by  heart.  There  was  no  doubt 
in  their  minds  of  the  poor  shoemaker's  innocence.  Every 
one  knew  that  he  was  incapable  of  hurting  a  fly.  The 
crowd  had  gone  Into  his  shop  and  swept  him  away  with 
them — all  were  in  it;  and  some  person  seeing  the  ham- 
mer had  taken  it  to  help  in  smashing  the  machinery. 
And  Mr.  Ellerby  had  known  in  his  heart  that  he  was 
innocent,  and  if  he  had  spoken  a  word  for  him  in  court 
he  would  have  got  the  benefit  of  the  doubt  and  been 
discharged.  But  no,  he  wanted  to  have  his  revenge  on 
some  one,  and  he  held  his  peace  and  allowed  this  poor 
fellow  to  be  made  the  victim.  Then,  when  he  died,  and 
his  eldest  son  succeeded  him  at  Doveton  Farm,  and  he 
and  the  other  sons  got  married,  and  there  were  no  chil- 
dren, or  none  born  alive,  they  went  back  to  the  Psalm 
again  and  read  and  re-read  and  quoted  the  words:  "Let 
his  posterity  be  cut  oflP ;  and  in  the  generation  following 


THE    ELLERBYS    OF   DOVETON     199 

let  their  name  be  blotted  out."     Undoubtedly  the  curse 
was  on  them! 

Alas!  it  was;  the  curse  was  their  beHef  in  the  curse, 
and  the  dreadful  effect  of  the  knowledge  of  it  on  a 
woman's  mind — all  the  result  of  Mr.  Ellerby  the  father's 
fatal  mistake  in  not  having  thrown  the  scrap  of  paper 
that  came  to  him  from  the  other  side  of  the  world  into 
the  fire.  All  the  unhappiness  of  the  "generation  follow- 
ing" came  about  in  this  way,  and  the  family  came  to  an 
end;  for  when  the  last  of  the  Ellerbys  died  at  a  great 
age  there  was  not  one  person  of  the  name  left  in  that 
part  of  Wiltshire. 


^-^^fr^ 


^Y^^^^im^' 


rONTMILL      BISHOP 


CHAPTER   XVII 
Old  Wiltshire  Days 

Old  memories — Hindon  as  a  borough  and  as  a  village — 
The  Lamb  Inn  and  its  birds — The  "mob"  at  Hindon 
—  The  blind  smuggler  —  Rawlings  of  Lower  Pert- 
wood  Farm — Reed,  the  thresher  and  deer-stealer — 
He  leaves  a  fortune — Devotion  to  work — Old  Father 
Time — Groveley  Wood  and  the  people's  rights — 
Grace  Reed  and  the  Earl  of  Pembroke— An  illusion 
of  the  very  aged — Sedan-chairs  in  Bath — Stick-gath- 
ering by  the  poor — Game-preserving 

The  incident  of  the  unhappy  young  man  who  was  trans- 
ported to  Australia  or  Tasmania,  which  came  out  in  the 
shepherd's  history  of  the  Ellerby  family,  put  it  in  my 
mind  to  look  up  some  of  the  very  aged  people  of  the 
downland  villages,   whose  memories  could  go  back  to 

200 


OLD   WILTSHIRE    DAYS  201 

the  events  of  eighty  years  ago.  I  found  a  few,  "still 
lingering  here,"  who  were  able  to  recall  that  miserable 
and  memorable  year  of  1830  and  had  witnessed  the  doings 
of  the  "mobs."  One  was  a  woman,  my  old  friend  of 
Fonthill  Bishop,  now  aged  94,  who  was  in  her  teens 
when  the  poor  labourers,  "a  thousand  strong,"  some  say, 
armed  with  cudgels,  hammers,  and  axes,  visited  her  vil- 
lage and  broke  up  the  threshing  machines  they  found 
there. 

Another  person  who  remembered  that  time  was  an 
old  but  remarkably  well-preserved  man  of  89  at  Hindon, 
a  village  a  couple  of  miles  distant  from  Fonthill  Bishop. 
Hindon  is  a  delightful  little  village,  so  rustic  and  pretty 
amidst  its  green,  swelling  downs,  with  great  woods  crown- 
ing the  heights  beyond,  that  one  can  hardly  credit  the 
fact  that  it  was  formerly  an  important  market  and  session 
town  and  a  Parliamentary  borough  returning  two  mem- 
bers ;  also  that  it  boasted  among  other  greatnesses  thirteen 
public-houses.  Now  it  has  two,  and  not  flourishing  in 
these  tea-  and  mineral-water  drinking  days.  Naturally 
it  was  an  exceedingly  corrupt  little  borough,  where  free 
beer  for  all  was  the  order  of  the  day  for  a  period  of  four 
to  six  weeks  before  an  election,  and  where  every  house- 
holder with  a  vote  looked  to  receive  twenty  guineas  from 
the  candidate  of  his  choice.  It  is  still  remembered  that 
when  a  householder  in  those  days  was  very  hard  up, 
owing,  perhaps,  to  his  too  frequent  visits  to  the  thirteen 
public-houses,  he  would  go  to  some  substantial  tradesman 
in  the  place  and  pledge  his  twenty  guineas,  due  at  the 
next  election!  In  due  time,  after  the  Reform  Bill,  it 
was  deprived  of  its  glory,  and  later  when  the  South- 
western Railway  built  their  line  from  Salisbury  to  Yeovil 


202  A   SHEPHERD'S   LIFE 

and  left  Hindon  some  miles  away,  making  their  station 
at  Tisbury,  it  fell  into  decay,  dwindling  to  the  small 
village  it  now  is ;  and  its  last  state,  sober  and  purified,  is 
very  much  better  than  the  old.  For  although  sober,  it 
is  contented  and  even  merry,  and  exhibits  such  a  sweet 
friendliness  towards  the  stranger  within  its  gates  as  to 
make  him  remember  it  with  pleasure  and  gratitude. 

What  a  quiet  little  place  Hindon  has  become,  after 
its  old  noisy  period,  the  following  little  bird  story  will 
show.  For  several  weeks  during  the  spring  and  ^summer 
of  1909  my  home  was  at  the  Lamb  Inn,  a  famous  posting- 
house  of  the  great  old  days,  and  we  had  three  pairs  of 
birds — throstle,  pied  wagtail,  and  flycatcher — breeding 
in  the  ivy  covering  the  wall  facing  the  village  street,  just 
over  my  window,  I  watched  them  when  building,  incu- 
bating, feeding  their  young,  and  bringing  their  young 
off.  The  villagers,  too,  were  interested  in  the  sight,  and 
sometimes  a  dozen  or  more  men  and  boys  would  gather 
and  stand  for  half  an  hour  watching  the  birds  flying  in 
and  out  of  their  nests  when  feeding  their  young.  The 
last  to  come  off  were  the  flycatchers,  on  18  June.  It 
was  on  the  morning  of  the  day  I  left,  and  one  of  the 
little  things  flitted  into  the  room  where  I  was  having  my 
breakfast.  I  succeeded  in  capturing  it  before  the  cats 
found  out,  and  put  it  back  on  the  ivy.  There  were  three 
young  birds;  I  had  watched  them  from  the  time  they 
hatched,  and  when  I  returned  a  fortnight  later,  there 
were  the  three,  still  being  fed  by  their  parents  in  the 
trees  and  on  the  roof,  their  favourite  perching-place  being 
on  the  swinging  sign  of  the  "Lamb."  Whenever  an  old 
bird  darted  at  and  captured  a  fly  the  three  young  would 
flutter  round  it  like  three  butterflies  to  get  the  fly.    This 


OLD   WILTSHIRE    DAYS  203 

continued  until  18  July,  after  which  date  I  could  not 
detect  their  feeding  the  young,  although  the  hunger-call 
was  occasionally  heard. 

If  the  flycatcher  takes  a  month  to  teach  its  young  to 
catch  their  own  flies,  it  is  not  strange  that  it  breeds  but 
once  in  the  year.  It  is  a  delicate  art  the  bird  practises 
and  takes  long  to  learn,  but  how  different  with  the  martin, 
which  dismisses  its  young  in  a  few  days  and  begins 
breeding  again,  even  to  the  third  time! 

These  three  broods  over  my  window  were  not  the  only 
ones  in  the  place;  there  were  at  least  twenty  other  pairs 
in  the  garden  and  outhouses  of  the  inn  —  sparrows, 
thrushes,  blackbirds,  dunnocks,  wrens,  starlings,  and 
swallows.  Yet  the  inn  was  in  the  very  centre  of  the 
village,  and  being  an  inn  was  the  most  frequented  and 
noisiest  spot. 

To  return  to  my  old  friend  of  89.  He  was  but  a 
small  boy,  attending  the  Hindon  school,  when  the  rioters 
appeared  on  the  scene,  and  he  watched  their  entry  from 
the  schoolhouse  window.  It  was  market-day,  and  the 
market  was  stopped  by  the  invaders,  and  the  agricultural 
machines  brought  for  sale  and  exhibition  were  broken 
up.  The  picture  that  remains  in  his  mind  is  of  a  great 
excited  crowd  in  which  men  and  cattle  and  sheep  were 
mixed  together  in  the  wide  street,  which  was  the  market- 
place, and  of  shouting  and  noise  of  smashing  machinery, 
and  finally  of  the  mob  pouring  forth  over  the  down  on 
its  way  to  the  next  village,  he  and  other  little  boys  fol- 
lowing their  march. 

The  smuggling  trade  flourished  greatly  at  that  period, 
and  there  were  receivers  and  distributors  of  smuggled 
wine,  spirits,  and  other  commodities  in  every  town  and 


204 


A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 


in  very  many  villages  throughout  the  county  in  spite  of 
its  distance  from  the  sea-coast.  One  of  his  memories  is 
of  a  blind  man  of  the  village,  or  town  as  it  was  then, 
who  was  used  as  an  assistant  in  this  business.  He  had 
lost  his  sight  in  childhood,  one  eye  having  been  destroyed 
by  a  ferret  which  got  into  his  cradle ;  then,  when  he  was 
about  six  years  old,  he  was  running  across  the  room  one 
day  with  a  fork  in  his  hand  when  he  stumbled,  and  falling 
on  the  floor  had  the  other  eye  pierced  by  the  prongs.    But 


•HINIM>N 


in  spite  of  his  blindness  he  became  a  good  worker,  and 
could  make  a  fence,  reap,  trim  hedges,  feed  the  animals, 
and  drive  a  horse  as  well  as  any  man.  His  father  had 
a  small  farm  and  was  a  carrier  as  well,  a  quiet,  sober, 
industrious  man  who  was  never  suspected  by  his  neigh- 
bours of  being  a  smuggler,  for  he  never  left  his  house 
and  work,  but  from  time  to  time  he  had  little  consign- 
ments of  rum  and  brandy  in  casks  received  on  a  dark 
night  and  carefully  stowed  away  in  his  manure  heap  and 
in  a  pit  under  the  floor  of  his  pigsty.    Then  the  blind  son 


OLD   WILTSHIRE    DAYS  205 

would  drive  his  old  mother  in  the  carrier's  cart  to  Bath 
and  call  at  a  dozen  or  twenty  private  houses,  leaving 
parcels  which  had  been  already  ordered  and  paid  for — 
a  gallon  of  brandy  in  one,  two  or  four  gallons  of  rum 
at  another,  and  so  on,  until  all  was  got  rid  of,  and  on 
the  following  day  they  would  return  with  goods  to  Hin- 
don.  This  quiet  little  business  went  on  satisfactorily  for 
some  years,  during  which  the  officers  of  the  excise  had 
stared  a  thousand  times  with  their  eagle's  eyes  at  the 
quaint  old  woman  in  her  poke  bonnet  and  shawl,  driven 
by  a  blind  man  with  a  vacant  face,  and  had  suspected 
nothing,  when  a  little  mistake  was  made  and  a  jar  of 
brandy  delivered  at  a  wrong  address.  The  recipient  was 
an  honest  gentleman,  and  in  his  anxiety  to  find  the  right- 
ful owner  of  the  brandy  made  extensive  inquiries  in  his 
neighbourhood,  and  eventually  the  excisemen  got  wind 
of  the  affair,  and  on  the  very  next  visit  of  the  old  woman 
and  her  son  to  Bath  they  were  captured.  After  an 
examination  before  a  magistrate  the  son  was  discharged 
on  account  of  his  blindness,  but  the  cart  and  horses,  as 
well  as  the  smuggled  spirits,  were  confiscated,  and  the 
poor  blind  man  had  to  make  his  way  on  foot  to  Hindon. 
Another  of  his  recollections  is  of  a  family  named 
Rawlings,  tenants  of  Lower  Pertwood  Farm,  near  Hin- 
don, a  lonely,  desolate-looking  house  hidden  away  in  a 
deep  hollow  among  the  high  downs.  The  Farmer  Raw- 
lings  of  seventy  to  eighty  years  ago  was  a  man  of 
singular  ideas,  and  that  he  was  permitted  to  put  them 
in  practice  shows  that  severe  as  was  the  law  in  those  days, 
and  dreadful  the  punishments  inflicted  on  offenders,  there 
was  a  kind  of  liberty  which  does  not  exist  now — the 
liberty  a  man  had  of  doing  just  what  he  thought  proper 


206  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

in  his  own  house.  This  Rawlings  had  a  numerous  family, 
and  some  died  at  home  and  others  Hved  to  grow  up  and 
go  out  into  the  world  under  strange  names — Faith,  Hope, 
and  Charity  were  three  of  his  daughters,  and  Justice, 
Morality,  and  Fortitude  three  of  his  sons.  Now,  for 
some  reason  Rawlings  objected  to  the  burial  of  his  dead 
in  the  churchyard  of  the  nearest  village  —  Monkton 
Deverill,  and  the  story  is  that  he  quarrelled  with  the 
rector  over  the  question  of  the  church  bell  being  tolled 
for  the  funeral.  He  would  have  no  bell  tolled,  he  swore, 
and  the  rector  would  bury  no  one  without  the  bell.  There- 
upon Rawlings  had  the  coffined  corpse  deposited  on  a 
table  in  an  outhouse  and  the  door  made  fast.  Later 
there  was  another  death,  then  a  third,  and  all  three  were 
kept  in  the  same  place  for  several  years,  and  although 
it  was  known  to  the  whole  countryside  no  action  was 
taken  by  the  local  authorities. 

My  old  informant  says  that  he  was  often  at  the  farm 
when  he  was  a  young  man,  and  he  used  to  steal  round 
to  the  "Dead  House,"  as  it  was  called,  to  peep  through 
a  crack  in  the  door  and  see  the  three  coffins  resting  on 
the  table  in  the  dim  interior. 

Eventually  the  dead  disappeared  a  little  while  before 
the  Rawlings  gave  up  the  farm,  and  it  was  supposed 
that  the  old  farmer  had  buried  them  in  the  night-time 
in  one  of  the  neighbouring  chalk-pits,  but  the  spot  has 
never  been  discovered. 

One  of  the  stories  of  the  old  Wiltshire  days  I  picked 
up  was  from  an  old  woman,  aged  87,  in  the  Wilton 
workhouse.  She  has  a  vivid  recollection  of  a  labourer 
named  Reed,  in  Odstock,  a  village  on  the  Ebble  near  Salis- 
bury, a  stern,  silent  man,  who  was  a  marvel  of  strength 


OLD   WILTSHIRE    DAYS  207 

and  endurance.  The  work  in  which  he  most  delighted 
was  precisely  that  which  most  labourers  hated,  before 
threshing  machines  came  in  despite  the  action  of  the 
I  "mobs" — threshing  out  corn  with  the  flail.  From  earliest 
dawn  till  after  dark  he  would  sit  or  stand  in  a  dim,  dusty 
barn,  monotonously  pounding  away,  without  an  interval 
to  rest,  and  without  dinner  and  with  no  food  but  a  piece 
of  bread  and  a  pinch  of  salt.  Without  the  salt  he  would 
not  eat  the  bread.  An  hour  after  all  others  had  ceased 
from  work  he  would  put  on  his  coat  and  trudge  home  to 
his  wife  and  family. 

The  woman  in  the  workhouse  remembers  that  once, 
when  Reed  was  a  very  old  man  past  work,  he  came  to 
their  cottage  for  something,  and  while  he  stood  waiting 
at  the  entrance,  a  little  boy  ran  in  and  asked  his  mother 
for  a  piece  of  bread  and  butter  with  sugar  on  it.  Old 
Reed  glared  at  him,  and  shaking  his  big  stick,  exclaimed, 
"I'd  give  you  sugar  with  this  if  you  were  my  boy!"  and 
so  terrible  did  he  look  in  his  anger  at  the  luxury  of  the 
times,  that  the  little  boy  burst  out  crying  and  ran  away ! 

What  chiefly  interested  me  about  this  old  man  was 
that  he  was  a  deer-stealer  of  the  days  when  that  offence 
was  common  in  the  country.  It  was  not  so  great  a  crime 
as  sheep-stealing,  for  which  men  were  hanged;  taking 
a  deer  was  punished  with  nothing  worse  than  hard  labour 
as  a  rule.  But  Reed  was  never  caught ;  he  would  labour 
his  full  time  and  steal  away  after  dark  over  the  downs, 
to  return  in  the  small  hours  with  a  deer  on  his  back.  It 
was  not  for  his  own  consumption ;  he  wanted  the  money 
for  which  he  sold  it  in  Salisbury;  and  it  is  probable  that 
he  was  in  league  with  other  poachers,  as  it  is  hard  to 
believe  that  he  could  capture  the  animals  single-handed. 


208 


A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 


After  his  death  it  was  found  that  old  Reed  had  left 
a  hundred  pounds  to  each  of  his  two  surviving  daughters, 
and  it  was  a  wonder  to  everybody  how  he  had  managed 
not  only  to  bring  up  a  family  and  keep  himself  out  of 
the  workhouse  to  the  end  of  his  long  life  but  to  leave  so 
large  a  sum  of  money.     One  can  only  suppose  that  he 


•  COURTY/»RD  OF  TllE  LAMB'  MINDON 


was  a  rigid  economist  and  never  had  a  week's  illness, 
and  that  by  abstaining  from  beer  and  tobacco  he  was 
able  to  save  a  couple  of  shillings  each  week  out  of  his 
wages  of  seven  or  eight  shillings;  this,  in  forty  years, 
would  make  the  two  hundred  pounds  with  something 
over. 

It  is  not  a  very  rare  thing  to  find  a  farm-labourer  like 
old  Reed  of  Odstock,  with  not  only  a  strong  preference 
for  a  particular  kind  of  work,  but  a  love  of  it  as  compel- 


OLD   WILTSHIRE    DAYS  209 

ling  as  that  of  an  artist  for  his  art.  Some  friends  of  mine 
whom  I  went  to  visit  over  the  border  in  Dorset  told  me 
of  an  enthusiast  of  this  description  who  had  recently 
died  in  the  village.  "What  a  pity  you  did  not  come 
sooner,"  they  said.  Alas!  it  is  nearly  always  so;  on  first 
coming  to  stay  at  a  village  one  is  told  that  it  has  but 
just  lost  its  oldest  and  most  interesting  inhabitant — a 
relic  of  the  olden  time. 

This  man  had  taken  to  the  scythe  as  Reed  had  to  the 
flail,  and  was  never  happy  unless  he  had  a  field  to  mow. 
He  was  a  very  tall  old  man,  so  lean  that  he  looked  like 
a  skeleton,  the  bones  covered  with  a  skin  as  brown  as 
old  leather,  and  he  wore  his  thin  grey  hair  and  snow- 
white  beard  very  long.  He  rode  on  a  white  donkey,  and 
was  usually  seen  mounted  galloping  down  the  village 
street,  hatless,  his  old  brown,  bare  feet  and  legs  drawn 
up  to  keep  them  from  the  ground,  his  scythe  over  his 
shoulder.  "Here  comes  Old  Father  Time,"  they  would 
cry,  as  they  called  him,  and  run  to  the  door  to  gaze  with 
ever  fresh  delight  at  the  wonderful  old  man  as  he  rushed 
by,  kicking  and  shouting  at  his  donkey  to  make  him 
go  faster.  He  was  always  in  a  hurry,  hunting  for  work 
with  furious  zeal,  and  when  he  got  a  field  to  mow  so 
eager  was  he  that  he  would  not  sleep  at  home,  even  if 
it  was  close  by,  but  would  lie  down  on  the  grass  at  the 
side  of  the  field  and  start  working  at  dawn,  between 
two  and  three  o'clock,  quite  three  hours  before  the  world 
woke  up  to  its  daily  toil. 

The  name  of  Reed,  the  zealous  thresher  with  the  flail, 
serves  to  remind  me  of  yet  another  Reed,  a  woman  who 
died  a  few  years  ago  aged  94,  and  whose  name  should 
be  cherished  in  one  of  the  downland  villages.     She  was 


210  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

a  native  of  Barford  St.  Martin  on  the  Nadder,  one  of 
two  villages,  the  other  being  Wishford,  on  the  Wylye 
river,  the  inhabitants  of  v^^hich  have  the  right  to  go  into 
Groveley  Wood,  an  immense  forest  on  the  Wilton  estate, 
to  obtain  wood  for  burning,  each  person  being  entitled 
to  take  home  as  much  wood  as  he  or  she  can  carry.  The 
people  of  Wishford  take  green  wood,  but  those  of  Bar- 
ford  only  dead,  they  having  bartered  their  right  at  a 
remote  period  to  cut  growing  trees  for  a  yearly  sum  of 
five  pounds,  which  the  lord  of  the  manor  still  pays  to 
the  village,  and,  in  addition,  the  right  to  take  dead  wood. 
It  will  be  readily  understood  that  this  right  possessed 
by  the  people  of  two  villages,  both  situated  within  a 
mile  of  the  forest,  has  been  a  perpetual  source  of  annoy- 
ance to  the  noble  owners  in  modern  times,  since  the  strict 
preservation  of  game,  especially  of  pheasants,  has  grown 
to  be  almost  a  religion  to  the  landowners.  Now  it  came 
to  pass  that  about  half  a  century  or  longer  ago,  the 
Pembroke  of  that  time  made  the  happy  discovery,  as  he 
imagined,  that  there  was  nothing  to  show  that  the  Bar- 
ford  people  had  any  right  to  the  dead  wood.  They  had 
been  graciously  allowed  to  take  it,  as  was  the  case  all 
over  the  country  at  that  time,  and  that  was  all.  At  once 
he  issued  an  edict  prohibiting  the  taking  of  dead  wood 
from  the  forest  by  the  villagers,  and  ^reat  as  the  loss 
was  to  them  they  acquiesced;  not  a  man  of  Barford  St. 
Martin  dared  to  disobey  the  prohibition  or  raise  his  voice 
against  it.  Grace  Reed  then  determined  to  oppose  the 
mighty  earl,  and  accompanied  by  four  other  women  of 
the  village  boldly  went  to  the  wood  and  gathered  their 
sticks  and  brought  them  home.  They  were  summoned 
before  the  magistrates  and  fined,  and  on  their  refusal 


OLD   WILTSHIRE    DAYS  211 

to  pay  were  sent  to  prison;  but  the  very  next  day  they 
were  Hberated  and  told  that  a  mistake  had  been  made, 
that  the  matter  had  been  inquired  into,  and  it  had  been 
found  that  the  people  of  Barford  did  really  have  the 
right  they  had  exercised  so  long  to  take  dead  wood  from 
the  forest. 

As  a  result  of  the  action  of  these  women  the  right 
has  not  been  challenged  since,  and  on  my  last  visit  to 
Barford,  a  few  days  before  writing  this  chapter,  I  saw 
three  women  coming  down  from  the  forest  with  as  much 
dead  wood  as  they  could  carry  on  their  heads  and  backs. 
But  how  near  they  came  to  losing  their  right !  It  was 
a  bold,  an  unheard-of  thing  which  they  did,  and  if  there 
had  not  been  a  poor  cottage  woman  with  the  spirit  to 
do  it  at  the  proper  moment  the  right  could  never  have 
been  revived. 

Grace  Reed's  children's  children  are  living  at  Barford 
now;  they  say  that  to  the  very  end  of  her  long  life  she 
preserved  a  very  clear  memory  of  the  people  and  events 
of  the  village  in  the  old  days  early  in  the  last  century. 
They  say,  too,  that  in  recalling  the  far  past,  the  old  people 
and  scenes  would  present  themselves  so  vividly  to  her 
mind  that  she  would  speak  of  them  as  of  recent  things, 
and  would  say  to  some  one  fifty  years  younger  than 
herself,  "Can't  you  remember  it?  Surely  you  haven't 
forgotten  it  when  'twas  the  talk  of  the  village !" 

It  is  a  common  illusion  of  the  very  aged,  and  I  had 
an  amusing  instance  of  it  in  my  old  Hindon  friend  when 
he  gave  me  his  first  impressions  of  Bath  as  he  saw  it 
about  the  year  1835.  What  astonished  him  most  were 
the  sedan-chairs,  for  he  had  never  even  heard  of  such  a 
conveyance,  but  here  in  this  city  of  wonders  you  met 


212  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

them  in  every  street.  Then  he  added,  "But  you've  been 
to  Bath  and  of  course  you've  seen  them,  and  know  all 
about  it," 

About  firewood-gathering  by  the  poor  in  woods  and 
forests,  my  old  friend  of  Fonthill  Bishop  says  that  the 
people  of  the  villages  adjacent  to  the  Fonthill  and  Great 
Ridge  Woods  were  allowed  to  take  as  much  dead  wood 
as  they  wanted  from  those  places.  She  was  accustomed 
to  go  to  the  Great  Ridge  Wood  which  was  even  wilder 
and  more  like  a  natural  forest  in  those  days  than  it  is 
now.  It  was  fully  two  miles  from  her  village,  a  longish 
distance  to  carry  a  heavy  load,  and  it  was  her  custom 
after  getting  the  wood  out  to  bind  it  firmly  in  a  large 
barrel-shaped  bundle  or  faggot,  as  in  that  way  she  could 
roll  it  down  the  smooth  steep  slopes  of  the  down  and 
so  get  her  burden  home  without  so  much  groaning  and 
sweating.  The  great  wood  was  then  full  of  hazel-trees, 
and  produced  such  an  abundance  of  nuts  that  from 
mid-July  to  September  people  flocked  to  it  for  the  nutting 
from  all  the  country  round,  coming  even  from  Bath  and 
Bristol  to  load  their  carts  with  nuts  in  sacks  for  the 
market.  Later,  when  the  wood  began  to  be  more  strictly 
preserved  for  sporting  purposes,  the  rabbits  were  allowed 
to  increase  excessively,  and  during  the  hard  winters  they 
attacked  the  hazel-trees,  gnawing  off  the  bark,  until  this 
most  useful  and  profitable  wood  the  forest  produced — 
the  scrubby  oaks  having  little  value — was  wellnigh  extir- 
pated. By  and  by  pheasants  as  well  as  rabbits  were 
strictly  preserved,  and  the  firewood-gatherers  were  ex- 
cluded altogether.  At  present  you  find  dead  wood  lying 
about  all  over  the  place,  abundantly  as  in  any  primitive 
forest,  where  trees  die  of  old  age  or  disease,  or  are  blown 


OLD   WILTSHIRE    DAYS  213 

down  or  broken  off  by  the  winds  and  are  left  to  rot  on 
the  ground,  overgrown  with  ivy  and  brambles.  But  of 
all  this  dead  wood  not  a  stick  to  boil  a  kettle  may  be 
taken  by  the  neighbouring  poor  lest  the  pheasants  should 
be  disturbed  or  a  rabbit  be  picked  up. 

Some  more  of  the  old  dame's  recollections  will  be 
given  in  the  next  chapter,  showing  what  the  condition 
of  the  people  was  in  this  district  about  the  year  1830, 
when  the  poor  farm-labourers  were  driven  by  hunger 
and  misery  to  revolt  against  their  masters — the  farmers 
who  were  everywhere  breaking  up  the  downs  with  the 
plough  to  sow  more  and  still  more  corn,  who  were  grow- 
ing very  fat  and  paying  higher  and  higher  rents  to  their 
fat  landlords,  while  the  wretched  men  that  drove  the 
plough  had  hardly  enough  to  satisfy  their  hunger. 


CHAPTER   XVIII 
Old  Wiltshire  Days — Continued 

An  old  Wiltshire  woman's  memories — Her  home — Work 
on  a  farm  —  A  little  bird-scarer  —  Housekeeping  — 
The  agricultural  labourers'  rising — Villagers  out  of 
work  —  Relief  work  —  A  game  of  ball  with  barley 
bannocks — Sheep-stealing — A  poor  man  hanged — 
Temptations  to  steal — A  sheep-stealing  shepherd — 
A  sheep-stealing  farmer — Story  of  Ebenezer  Garlick 
—  A  sheep-stealer  at  Chitterne  —  The  law  and  the 
judges — A  "human  devil"  in  a  black  cap — How  the 
revolting  labourers  were  punished — A  last  scene  at 
Salisbury  Court  House  —  Inquest  on  a  murdered 
man — Policy  of  the  farmers 

The  story  of  her  early  life  told  by  my  old  friend  Joan, 
aged  94,  will  serve  to  give  some  idea  of  the  extreme 
poverty  and  hard  suffering  life  of  the  agricultural  labour- 
ers during  the  thirties  of  last  century,  at  a  time  when 
farmers  were  exceedingly  prosperous  and  landlords  draw- 
ing high  rents. 

She  was  3  years  old  when  her  mother  died,  after  the 
birth  of  a  boy,  the  last  of  eleven  children.     There  was 

214 


OLD   WILTSHIRE    DAYS  215 

a  dame's  school  in  their  little  village  of  Fonthill  Abbey, 
but  the  poverty  of  the  family  would  have  made  it  impos- 
sible for  Joan  to  attend  had  it  not  been  for  an  unselfish 
person  residing  there,  a  Mr.  King,  who  was  anxious 
that  every  child  should  be  taught  its  letters.  He  paid 
for  little  Joan's  schooling  from  the  age  of  4  to  8;  and 
now,  in  the  evening  of  her  life,  when  she  sits  by  the  fire 
with  her  book,  she  blesses  the  memory  of  the  man,  dead 
these  seventy  or  eighty  years,  who  made  this  solace  pos- 
sible for  her. 

After  the  age  of  8  there  could  be  no  more  school,  for 
now  all  the  older  children  had  gone  out  into  the  world 
to  make  their  own  poor  living,  the  boys  to  work  on 
distant  farms,  the  girls  to  service  or  to  be  wives,  and 
Joan  was  wanted  at  home  to  keep  house  for  her  father, 
to  do  the  washing,  mending,  cleaning,  cooking,  and  to 
be  mother  to  her  Httle  brother  as  well. 

Her  father  was  a  ploughman,  at  seven  shillings  a  week ; 
but  when  Joan  was  10  he  met  with  a  dreadful  accident 
when  ploughing  with  a  couple  of  young  or  intractable 
oxen;  in  trying  to  stop  them  he  got  entangled  in  the 
ropes  and  one  of  his  legs  badly  broken  by  the  plough. 
As  a  result  it  was  six  months  before  he  could  leave  his 
cottage.  The  overseer  of  the  parish,  a  prosperous  farmer 
who  had  a  large  farm  a  couple  of  miles  away,  came  to 
inquire  into  the  matter  and  see  what  was  to  be  done. 
His  decision  was  that  the  man  would  receive  three  shill- 
ings a  week  until  able  to  start  work  again,  and  as  that 
would  just  serve  to  keep  him,  the  children  must  go  out 
to  work.  Meanwhile,  one  of  the  married  daughters  had 
come  to  look  after  her  father  in  the  cottage,  and  that 
set  the  little  ones  free. 


216  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

The  overseer  said  he  would  give  them  work  on  his 
farm  and  pay  them  a  few  pence  apiece  and  give  them 
their  meals;  so  to  his  farm  they  went,  returning  each 
evening  home.  That  was  her  first  place,  and  from  that 
time  on  she  was  a  toiler,  indoors  and  out,  but  mainly 
in  the  fields,  till  she  was  past  85 ; — seventy-five  years  of 
hard  work — then  less  and  less  as  her  wonderful  strength 
diminished,  and  her  sons  and  daughters  were  getting 
grey,  until  now  at  the  age  of  94  she  does  very  little — 
practically  nothing. 

In  that  first  place  she  had  a  very  hard  master  in  the 
farmer  and  overseer.  He  was  known  in  all  the  neigh- 
bourhood as  "Devil  Turner,"  and  even  at  that  time,  when 
farmers  had  their  men  under  their  heel  as  it  were,  he 
was  noted  for  his  savage  tyrannical  disposition ;  also  for 
a  curious  sardonic  humour,  which  displayed  itself  in 
the  forms  of  punishment  he  inflicted  on  the  workmen 
who  had  the  ill-luck  to  offend  him.  The  man  had  to 
take  the  punishment,  however  painful  or  disgraceful, 
without  a  murmur,  or  go  and  starve.  Every  morning 
thereafter  Joan  and  her  little  brother,  aged  7,  had  to  be 
up  in  time  to  get  to  the  farm  at  five  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  if  it  was  raining  or  snowing  or  bitterly  cold,  so 
much  the  worse  for  them,  but  they  had  to  be  there,  for 
Devil  Turner's  bad  temper  was  harder  to  bear  than  bad 
weather.  Joan  was  a  girl  of  all  work,  in  and  out  of 
doors,  and,  in  severe  weather,  when  there  was  nothing 
else  for  her  to  do,  she  would  be  sent  into  the  fields  to 
gather  flints,  the  coldest  of  all  tasks  for  her  little  hands. 

"But  what  could  your  little  brother,  a  child  of  7,  do 
in  such  a  place?"  I  asked. 

She  laughed  when  she  told  mc  of  her  little  brother's 


OLD   WILTSHIRE    DAYS  217 

very  first  day  at  the  farm.  The  farmer  was,  for  a  devil, 
considerate,  and  gave  him  something  very  light  for  a 
beginning,  which  was  to  scare  the  birds  from  the  ricks. 
"And  if  they  will  come  back  you  must  catch  them,"  he 
said,  and  left  the  little  fellow  to  obey  the  difficult  com- 
mand as  he  could.  The  birds  that  worried  him  most 
were  the  fowls,  for  however  often  he  hunted  them  away 
they  would  come  back  again.  Eventually,  he  found  some 
string,  with  which  he  made  some  little  loops  fastened  to 
sticks,  and  these  he  arranged  on  a  spot  of  ground  he 
had  cleared,  scattering  a  few  grains  of  corn  on  it  to 
attract  the  "birds."  By  this  means  he  succeeded  in 
capturing  three  of  the  robbers,  and  when  the  farmer 
came  round  at  noon  to  see  how  he  was  getting  on,  the 
little  fellow  showed  him  his  captures.  "These  are  not 
birds,"  said  the  farmer,  "they  are  fowls,  and  don't  you 
trouble  yourself  any  more  about  them,  but  keep  your 
eye  on  the  sparrows  and  little  birds  and  rooks  and  jack- 
daws that  come  to  pull  the  straws  out." 

That  was  how  he  started ;  then  from  the  ricks  to  bird- 
scaring  in  the  fields  and  to  other  tasks  suited  to  one  of 
his  age,  not  without  much  suffering  and  many  tears.  The 
worst  experience  was  the  punishment  of  standing  motion- 
less for  long  hours  at  a  time  on  a  chair  placed  out  in 
the  yard,  full  in  sight  of  the  windows  of  the  house,  so 
that  he  could  be  seen  by  the  Inmates;  the  hardest,  the 
cruellest  task  that  could  be  imposed  on  him  would  come 
as  a  relief  after  this,  Joan  suffered  no  punishment  of 
that  kind;  she  was  very  anxious  to  please  her  master 
and  worked  hard ;  but  she  was  an  Intelligent  and  spirited 
child,  and  as  the  sole  result  of  her  best  efforts  was  that 
more  and  more  work  was  put  on  her,  she  revolted  against 


218 


A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 


such  injustice,  and  eventually,  tried  beyond  endurance, 
she  ran  away  home  and  refused  to  go  back  to  the  farm 
any  more.  She  found  some  work  in  the  village;  for 
now  her  sister  had  to  go  back  to  her  husband,  and  Joan 
had  to  take  her  place  and  look  after  her  father  and  the 


JOAN 


house  as  well  as  earn  something  to  supplement  the  three 
shillings  a  week  they  had  to  live  on. 

After  about  nine  months  her  father  was  up  and  out 
again  and  went  back  to  the  plough;  for  just  then  a  great 
deal  of  down  was  being  broken  up  and  brought  under 
cultivation  on  account  of  the  high  price  of  wheat  and 
good  ploughmen  were  in  request.  He  was  lame,  the 
injured  limb  being  now  considerably  shorter  than  the 
other,  and  when  ploughing  he  could  only  manage  to 
keep  on  his  legs  by  walking  with  the  longer  one  in  the 
furrow  and  the  other  on  the  higher  ground.  But  after 
struggling  on  for  some  months  in  this  way,  suffering 
much  pain  and  his  strength  declining,  he  met  with  a 


OLD   WILTSHIRE   DAYS  219 

fresh  accident  and  was  laid  up  once  more  in  his  cottage, 
and  from  that  time  until  his  death  he  did  no  more  farm 
work.  Joan  and  her  Httle  brother  lived  or  slept  at  home 
and  worked  to  keep  themselves  and  him. 

Now  in  this,  her  own  little  story,  and  in  her  account 
of  the  condition  of  the  people  at  that  time;  also  in  the 
histories  of  other  old  men  and  women  whose  memories 
go  back  as  far  as  hers,  supplemented  by  a  little  reading 
in  the  newspapers  of  that  day,  I  can  understand  how  it 
came  about  that  these  poor  labourers,  poor,  spiritless 
slaves  as  they  had  been  made  by  long  years  of  extremest 
poverty  and  systematic  oppression,  rose  at  last  against 
their  hard  masters  and  smashed  the  agricultural  machines, 
and  burnt  ricks  and  broke  into  houses  to  destroy  and 
plunder  their  contents.  It  was  a  desperate,  a  mad  ad- 
venture— these  gatherings  of  half-starved  yokels,  armed 
with  sticks  and  axes,  and  they  were  quickly  put  down 
and  punished  in  a  way  that  even  "William  the  Bastard 
would  not  have  considered  as  too  lenient.  But  oppres- 
sion had  made  them  mad;  the  introduction  of  threshing 
machines  was  but  the  last  straw,  the  culminating  act  of 
the  hideous  system  followed  by  landlords  and  their  ten- 
ants— the  former  to  get  the  highest  possible  rent  for  his 
land,  the  other  to  get  his  labour  at  the  lowest  possible 
rate.  It  w^as  a  compact  between  landlord  and  tenant 
aimed  against  the  labourer.  It  was  not  merely  the  fact 
that  the  wages  of  a  strong  man  were  only  seven  shillings 
a  week  at  the  outside,  a  sum  barely  sufficient  to  keep 
him  and  his  family  from  starvation  and  rags  (as  a  fact 
it  was  not  enough,  and  but  for  a  little  poaching  and 
stealing  he  could  not  have  lived),  but  it  was  customary, 
especially  on  the  small  farms,  to  get  rid  of  the  men  after 


220  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

the  harvest  and  leave  them  to  exist  the  best  way  they 
could  during  the  bitter  winter  months.  Thus  every  vil- 
lage, as  a  rule,  had  its  dozen  or  twenty  or  more  men 
thrown  out  each  year — good  steady  men,  with  families 
dependent  on  them;  and  besides  these  there  were  the 
aged  and  weaklings  and  the  lads  who  had  not  yet  got 
a  place.  The  misery  of  these  out-of-work  labourers 
was  extreme.  They  would  go  to  the  woods  and  gather 
faggots  of  dead  wood,  which  they  would  try  to  sell  in 
the  villages;  but  there  were  few  who  could  afford  to 
buy  of  them;  and  at  night  they  would  skulk  about  the 
fields  to  rob  a  swede  or  two  to  satisfy  the  cravings  of 
hunger. 

In  some  parishes  the  farmer  overseers  were  allowed 
to  give  relief  work — out  of  the  rates,  it  goes  without  say- 
ing— to  these  unemployed  men  of  the  village  who  had 
been  discharged  in  October  or  November  and  would  be 
wanted  again  when  the  winter  was  over.  They  would 
be  put  to  flint-gathering  in  the  fields,  their  wages  being 
four  shillings  a  week.  Some  of  the  very  old  people  of 
Winterbourne  Bishop,  when  speaking  of  the  principal 
food  of  the  labourers  at  that  time,  the  barley  bannock 
and  its  exceeding  toughness,  gave  me  an  amusing  account 
of  a  game  of  balls  invented  by  the  flint-gatherers,  just  for 
the  sake  of  a  little  fun  during  their  long  weary  day  in 
the  fields,  especially  in  cold,  frosty  weather.  The  men 
would  take  their  dinners  with  them,  consisting  of  a  few 
barley  balls  or  cakes,  in  their  coat  pockets,  and  at  noon 
they  would  gather  at  one  spot  to  enjoy  their  meal,  and 
seat  themselves  on  the  ground  in  a  very  wide  circle,  the 
men  about  ten  yards  apart,  then  each  one  would  produce 
his  bannocks  and  start  throwing,  aiming  at  some  other 


OLD   WILTSHIRE    DAYS  221 

man's  face;  there  were  hits  and  misses  and  great  excite- 
ment and  hilarity  for  twenty  or  thirty  minutes,  after 
which  the  earth  and  gravel  adhering  to  the  balls  would 
be  wiped  off,  and  they  would  set  themselves  to  the  hard 
task  of  masticating  and  swallowing  the  heavy  stuff. 

At  sunset  they  would  go  home  to  a  supper  of  more 
barley  bannocks,  washed  down  with  hot  water  flavoured 
with  some  aromatic  herb  or  weed,  and  then  straight  to 
bed  to  get  warm,  for  there  was  little  firing. 

It  was  not  strange  that  sheep-stealing  was  one  of  the 
commonest  offences  against  the  law  at  that  time,  in  spite 
of  the  dreadful  penalty.  Hunger  made  the  people  reck- 
less. My  old  friend  Joan,  and  other  old  persons,  have 
said  to  me  that  it  appeared  in  those  days  that  the  men 
were  strangely  indifferent  and  did  not  seem  to  care 
whether  they  were  hanged  or  not.  It  is  true  they  did 
not  hang  very  many  of  them — the  judge  as  a  rule,  after 
putting  on  his  black  cap  and  ordering  them  to  the  gallows, 
would  send  in  a  recommendation  to  mercy  for  most  of 
them;  but  the  mercy  of  that  time  was  like  that  of  the 
wicked,  exceedingly  cruel.  Instead  of  swinging,  it  was 
transportation  for  life,  or  for  fourteen,  and,  at  the  very 
least,  seven  years.  Those  who  have  read  Clarke's  terrible 
book,  "For  the  Term  of  His  Natural  Life,"  know  (in 
a  way)  what  these  poor  Wiltshire  labourers,  who  in 
most  cases  were  never  more  heard  of  by  their  wives 
and  children,  were  sent  to  endure  in  Australia  and  Tas- 
mania. 

And  some  were  hanged ;  my  friend  Joan  named  some 
people  she  knows  In  the  neighbourhood  who  are  the 
grandchildren  of  a  young  man  with  a  wife  and  family 
of  small  children  who  was  hanged  at  Salisbury.     She 


222  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

had  a  vivid  recollection  of  this  case  because  it  had  seemed 
so  hard,  the  man  having  been  maddened  by  want  when 
he  took  a  sheep;  also  because  when  he  was  hanged  his 
poor  young  wife  travelled  to  the  place  of  slaughter  to 
beg  for  his  body,  and  had  it  brought  home  and  buried 
decently  in  the  village  churchyard. 

How  great  the  temptation  to  steal  sheep  must  have 
been,  anyone  may  know  by  merely  walking  about  among 
the  fields  in  this  part  of  the  country  to  see  how  the  sheep 
are  folded  and  left  by  night  unguarded,  often  at  long 
distances  from  the  village,  in  distant  fields  and  on  the 
downs.  Even  in  the  worst  times  it  was  never  customary, 
never  thought  necessary,  to  guard  the  flock  by  night. 
Many  cases  could  be  given  to  show  how  easy  it  was  to 
steal  sheep.  One  quite  recent,  about  twenty  years  ago, 
is  of  a  shepherd  who  was  frequently  sent  with  sheep  to 
the  fairs,  and  who  on  his  way  to  Wilton  fair  with  a 
flock  one  night  turned  aside  to  open  a  fold  and  let  out 
nineteen  sheep.  On  arriving  at  the  fair  he  took  out 
the  stolen  sheep  and  sold  them  to  a  butcher  of  his  ac- 
quaintance who  sent  them  up  to  London.  But  he  had 
taken  too  many  from  one  flock ;  they  were  quickly  missed, 
and  by  some  lucky  chance  it  was  found  out  and  the 
shepherd  arrested.  He  was  sentenced  to  eight  months' 
hard  labour,  and  it  came  out  during  the  trial  that  this 
poor  shepherd,  whose  wages  were  fourteen  shillings  a 
week,  had  a  sum  of  £400  to  his  credit  in  a  Salisbury  bank. 

Another  case  which  dates  far  back  is  that  of  a  farmer 
named  Day,  who  employed  a  shepherd  or  drover  to  take 
sheep  to  the  fairs  and  markets  and  steal  sheep  for  him 
on  the  way.  It  is  said  that  he  went  on  at  this  game  for 
years  before  it  was  discovered.     Eventually  master  and 


OLD   WILTSHIRE    DAYS  223 

man  quarrelled  and  the  drover  gave  information,  where- 
upon Day  was  arrested  and  lodged  in  Fisherton  Jail  at 
Salisbury.  Later  he  was  sent  to  take  his  trial  at  Devizes, 
on  horseback,  accompanied  by  two  constables.  At  the 
"Druid's  Head,"  a  public  house  on  the  way,  the  three 
travellers  alighted  for  refreshments,  and  there  Day  suc- 
ceeded in  giving  them  the  slip,  and  jumping  on  a  fast 
horse,  standing  ready  saddled  for  him,  made  his  escape. 
Farmer  Day  never  returned  to  the  Plain  and  was  never 
heard  of  again. 

There  is  an  element  of  humour  in  some  of  the  sheep- 
stealing  stories  of  the  old  days.  At  one  village  where 
I  stayed  often,  I  heard  about  a  certain  Ebenezcr  Garlick, 
who  was  commonly  called,  in  allusion  no  doubt  to  his 
surname,  "Sweet  Vi'lets."  He  was  a  sober,  hard-work- 
ing man,  an  example  to  most,  but  there  was  this  against 
him,  that  he  cherished  a  very  close  friendship  with  a 
poor,  disreputable,  drunken  loafer  nicknamed  "Flitter- 
mouse,"  who  spent  most  of  his  time  hanging  about  the 
old  coaching  inn  at  the  place  for  the  sake  of  tips.  Sweet 
Vi'lets  was  always  giving  coppers  and  sixpences  to  this 
man,  but  one  day  the)^  fell  out  when  Flittermouse  begged 
for  a  shilling.  He  must,  he  said,  have  a  shilling,  he 
couldn't  do  with  less,  and  when  the  other  refused  he 
followed  him,  demanding  the  money  with  abusive  words, 
to  everybody's  astonishment.  Finally  Sweet  Vi'lets 
turned  on  him  and  told  him  to  go  to  the  devil.  Flitter- 
mouse in  a  rage  went  straight  to  the  constable  and 
denounced  his  patron  as  a  sheep-stealer.  He,  Flitter- 
mouse, had  been  his  servant  and  helper,  and  on  the  very 
last  occasion  of  stealing  a  sheep  he  had  got  rid  of  the 
skin  and  offal  by  throwing  them  down  an  old  disused 


224  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

well  at  the  top  of  the  village  street.  To  the  well  the 
constable  went  with  ropes  and  hooks,  and  succeeded  in 
fishing  up  the  remains  described,  and  he  thereupon  ar- 
rested Garlick  and  took  him  before  a  magistrate,  who 
committed  him  for  trial.  Flittermouse  was  the  only- 
witness  for  the  prosecution,  and  the  judge  in  his  summing 
up  said  that,  taking  into  consideration  Garlick's  known 
character  in  the  village  as  a  sober,  diligent,  honest  man, 
it  would  be  a  little  too  much  to  hang  him  on  the  unsup- 
ported testimony  of  a  creature  like  Flittermouse,  who 
was  half  fool  and  half  scoundrel.  The  jury,  pleased  and 
very  much  surprised  at  being  directed  to  let  a  man  off, 
obediently  returned  a  verdict  of  Not  Guilty,  and  Sweet 
Vi'lets  returned  from  Salisbury  triumphant,  to  be  con- 
gratulated on  his  escape  by  all  the  villagers,  who,  how- 
ever, slyly  winked  and  smiled  at  one  another. 

Of  sheep-stealing  stories  I  will  relate  one  more — 3. 
case  which  never  came  into  court  and  was  never  dis- 
covered. It  was  related  to  me  by  a  middle-aged  man, 
a  shepherd  of  Warminster,  who  had  it  from  his  father, 
a  shepherd  of  Chitterne,  one  of  the  lonely,  isolated  vil- 
lages on  Salisbury  Plain,  between  the  Avon  and  the 
Wylye.  His  father  had  it  from  the  person  who  com- 
mitted the  crime  and  was  anxious  to  tell  it  to  some  one, 
and  knew  that  the  shepherd  was  his  true  friend,  a  silent, 
safe  man.  He  was  a  farm-labourer,  named  Shergold — 
one  of  the  South  Wiltshire  surnames  very  common  in 
the  early  part  of  last  century,  which  now  appear  to  be 
dying  out — described  as  a  very  big,  powerful  man,  full 
of  life  and  energy.  He  had  a  wife  and  several  young 
children  to  keep,  and  the  time  was  near  mid-winter; 
Shergold  was  out  of  work,  having  been  discharged  from 


OLD   WILTSHIRE    DAYS  225 

the  farm  at  the  end  of  the  harvest;  it  was  an  exceptionally- 
cold  season  and  there  was  no  food  and  no  firing  in  the 
house. 

One  evening  in  late  December  a  drover  arrived  at 
Chitterne  with  a  flock  of  sheep  which  he  was  driving  to 
Tilshead,  another  downland  village  several  miles  away. 
He  was  anxious  to  get  to  Tilshead  that  night  and  wanted 
a  man  to  help  him.  Shergold  was  on  the  spot  and  under- 
took to  go  with  him  for  the  sum  of  fourpence.  They 
set  out  when  it  was  getting  dark;  the  sheep  were  put  on 
the  road,  the  drover  going  before  the  flock  and  Shergold 
following  at  the  tail.  It  was  a  cold,  cloudy  night,  threat- 
ening snow,  and  so  dark  that  he  could  hardly  distinguish 
the  dim  forms  of  even  the  hindmost  sheep,  and  by  and 
by  the  temptation  to  steal  one  assailed  him.  For  how 
easy  it  would  be  for  him  to  do  it !  With  his  tremendous 
strength  he  could  kill  and  hide  a  sheep  very  quickly 
without  making  any  sound  whatever  to  alarm  the  drover. 
He  was  very  far  ahead;  Shergold  could  judge  the  dis- 
tance by  the  sound  of  his  voice  when  he  uttered  a  call 
or  shout  from  time  to  time,  and  by  the  barking  of  the 
dog,  as  he  flew  up  and  down,  first  on  one  side  of  the  road, 
then  on  the  other,  to  keep  the  flock  well  on  it.  And  he 
thought  of  what  a  sheep  would  be  to  him  and  to  his 
hungry  ones  at  home  until  the  temptation  was  too  strong, 
and  suddenly  lifting  his  big,  heavy  stick  he  brought  it 
down  with  such  force  on  the  head  of  a  sheep  as  to  drop 
it  with  its  skull  crushed,  dead  as  a  stone.  Hastily  picking 
it  up  he  ran  a  few  yards  away  and  placed  it  among  the 
furze-bushes,  intending  to  take  it  home  on  his  way 
back,  and  then  returned  to  the  flock. 

They  arrived  at  Tilshead  in  the  small  hours,  and  after 


226  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

receiving  his  fourpence  he  started  for  home,  walking 
rapidly  and  then  running  to  be  in  time,  but  when  he  got 
back  to  where  the  sheep  was  lying  the  dawn  was  coming, 
and  he  knew  that  before  he  could  get  to  Chitterne  with 
that  heavy  burdea  on  his  back  people  would  be  getting 
up  in  the  village  and  he  would  perhaps  be  seen.  The 
only  thing  to  do  was  to  hide  the  sheep  and  return  for  it 
on  the  following  night.  Accordingly  he  carried  it  away 
a  couple  of  hundred  yards  to  a  pit  or  small  hollow  in 
the  down  full  of  bramble  and  furze-bushes,  and  here  he 
concealed  it,  covering  it  with  a  mass  of  dead  bracken 
and  herbage,  and  left  it.  That  afternoon  the  long-threat- 
ening snow  began  to  fall,  and  with  snow  on  the  ground 
he  dared  not  go  to  recover  his  sheep,  since  his  footprints 
would  betray  him ;  he  must  wait  once  more  for  the  snow 
to  melt.  But  the  snow  fell  all  night,  and  what  must  his 
feelings  have  been  when  he  looked  at  it  still  falling  in 
the  morning  and  knew  that  he  could  have  gone  for  the 
sheep  with  safety,  since  all  traces  would  have  been  quickly 
obliterated ! 

Once  more  there  was  nothing  to  do  but  wait  patiently 
for  the  snow  to  cease  falling  and  for  the  thaw.  But 
how  intolerable  it  was ;  for  the  weather  continued  bitterly 
cold  for  many  days,  and  the  whole  country  was  white. 
During  those  hungry  days  even  that  poor  comfort  of 
sleeping  or  dozing  away  the  time  was  denied  him.  for 
the  danger  of  discovery  was  ever  present  to  his  ITiind, 
and  Shergold  was  not  one  of  the  callous  men  who  had 
become  indifferent  to  their  fate;  It  was  his  first  crime, 
and  he  loved  his  own  life  and  his  wife  and  children,  crying 
to  him  for  food.  And  the  food  for  them  was  lying  there 
on  the  down,  close  by,  and  he  could  not  get  it!    Roast 


OLD   WILTSHIRE    DAYS  227 

mutton,  boiled  mutton — mutton  in  a  dozen  delicious 
forms — the  thought  of  it  was  as  distressing,  as  madden- 
ing, as  that  of  the  peril  he  was  in. 

It  was  a  full  fortnight  before  the  wished  thaw  came; 
then  with  fear  and  trembling  he  went  for  his  sheep,  only 
to  find  that  it  had  been  pulled  to  pieces  and  the  flesh 
devoured  by  dogs  and  foxes! 

From  these  memories  of  the  old  villagers  I  turn  to 
the  newspapers  of  the  day  to  make  a  few  citations. 

The  law  as  it  was  did  not  distinguish  between  a  case 
of  the  kind  just  related,  of  the  starving,  sorely  tempted 
Shergold,  and  that  of  the  systematic  thief:  sheep-stealing 
was  a  capital  offence  and  the  man  must  hang,  unless 
recommended  to  mercy,  and  we  know  what  was  meant 
by  "mercy"  in  those  days.  That  so  barbarous  a  law 
existed  within  memory  of  people  to  be  found  living  in 
most  villages  appears  almost  incredible  to  us;  but  despite 
the  recommendations  to  "mercy"  usual  in  a  large  majority 
of  cases,  the  law  of  that  time  was  not  more  horrible 
than  the  temper  of  the  men  who  administered  it.  There 
are  good  and  bad  among  all,  and  in  all  professions,  but 
there  is  also  a  black  spot  in  most,  possibly  in  all  hearts, 
which  may  be  developed  to  almost  any  extent,  and  change 
the  justest,  wisest,  most  moral  men  into  "human  devils" 
— the  phrase  invented  by  Canon  Wilberforce  in  another 
connexion.  In  reading  the  old  reports  and  the  expres- 
sions used  by  the  judges  in  their  summings  up  and  sen- 
tences, it  is  impossible  not  to  believe  that  the  awful  power 
they  possessed,  and  its  constant  exercise,  had  not  only 
produced  the  inevitable  hardening  effect,  but  had  made 
them  cruel  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word.    Their  pleasure 


228  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

in  passing  dreadful  sentences  was  very  thinly  disguised, 
indeed,  by  certain  lofty  conventional  phrases  as  to  the 
necessity  of  upholding  the  law,  morality,  and  religion; 
they  were,  indeed,  as  familiar  with  the  name  of  the  Deity 
as  any  ranter  in  a  conventicle,  and  the  "enormity  of  the 
crime"  was  an  expression  as  constantly  used  in  the  case 
of  the  theft  of  a  loaf  of  bread,  or  of  an  old  coat  left 
hanging  on  a  hedge,  by  some  ill-clad,  half-starved  wretch, 
as  in  cases  of  burglary,  arson,  rape,  and  murder. 

It  is  surprising  to  find  how  very  few  the  real  crimes 
were  in  those  days,  despite  the  misery  of  the  people; 
that  nearly  all  the  "crimes"  for  which  men  were  sen- 
tenced to  the  gallows  and  to  transportation  for  life,  or 
for  long  terms,  were  offences  which  would  now  be 
sufficiently  punished  by  a  few  weeks',  or  even  a  few 
days',  imprisonment.  Thus  in  April,  1825,  I  note  that 
Mr.  Justice  Park  commented  on  the  heavy  appearance 
of  the  calendar.  It  was  not  so  much  the  number  (170) 
of  the  offenders  that  excited  his  concern  as  it  was  the 
nature  of  the  crimes  with  which  they  were  charged.  The 
worst  crime  in  this  instance  was  sheep-stealing! 

Again,  this  same  Mr.  Justice  Park,  at  the  Spring 
Assizes  at  Salisbury,  1827,  said  that  though  the  calendar 
was  a  heavy  one,  he  was  happy  to  find  on  looking  at 
the  depositions  of  the  principal  cases,  that  they  were  not 
of  a  very  serious  character.  Nevertheless  he  passed  sen- 
tence of  death  on  twenty-eight  persons,  among  them 
being  one  for  stealing  half  a  crown! 

Of  the  twenty-eight  all  but  three  were  eventually 
reprieved,  one  of  the  fated  three  being  a  youth  of  19, 
who  was  charged  with  stealing  a  mare  and  pleaded  guilty 
in  spite  of  a  warning  from  the  judge  not  to  do  so.    This 


OLD   WILTSHIRE    DAYS  229 

irritated  the  great  man  who  had  the  power  of  life  and 
death  in  his  hand.  In  passing  sentence  the  judge  "ex- 
patiated on  the  prevalence  of  the  crime  of  horse-steahng 
and  the  necessity  of  making  an  example.  The  enormity 
of  Read's  crime  rendered  him  a  proper  example,  and  he 
would  therefore  hold  out  no  hope  of  mercy  towards 
him."  As  to  the  plea  of  guilty,  he  remarked  that  nowa- 
days too  many  persons  pleaded  guilty,  deluded  with  the 
hope  that  it  would  be  taken  into  consideration  and  they 
would  escape  the  severer  penalty.  He  was  determined 
to  put  a  stop  to  that  sort  of  thing ;  if  Read  had  not  pleaded 
guilty  no  doubt  some  extenuating  circumstance  would 
have  come  up  during  the  trial  and  he  would  have  saved 
his  life. 

There,  if  ever,  spoke  the  "human  devil"  in  a  black 
cap! 

I  find  another  case  of  a  sentence  of  transportation 
for  life  on  a  youth  of  18,  named  Edward  Baker,  for 
stealing  a  pocket-handkerchief.  Had  he  pleaded  guilty 
it  might  have  been  worse  for  him. 

At  the  Salisbury  Spring  Assizes,  1830,  Mr.  Justice 
Gazalee,  addressing  the  grand  jury,  said  that  none  of 
the  crimes  appeared  to  be  marked  with  circumstances 
of  great  moral  turpitude.  The  prisoners  numbered  130; 
he  passed  sentences  of  death  on  twenty-nine,  life  trans- 
portations on  five,  fourteen  years  on  five,  seven  years 
on  eleven,  and  various  terms  of  hard  labour  on  the  others. 

The  severity  of  the  magistrates  at  the  quarter-sessions 
was  equally  revolting.  I  notice  in  one  case,  where  the 
leading  magistrate  on  the  bench  was  a  great  local  mag- 
nate, an  M.P.  for  Salisbury,  etc.,  a  poor  fellow  with  the 
unfortunate  name  of  Moses  Snook  was  charged  with 


230  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

stealing  a  plank  ten  feet  long,  the  property  of  the  afore- 
said local  magnate,  M.P.,  etc.,  and  sentenced  to  fourteen 
years'  transportation.  Sentenced  by  the  man  who  owned 
the  plank,  worth  perhaps  a  shilling  or  two ! 

When  such  was  the  law  of  the  land  and  the  temper 
of  those  who  administered  it — judges  and  magistrates 
or  landlords — ^what  must  the  misery  of  the  people  have 
been  to  cause  them  to  rise  in  revolt  against  their  masters! 
They  did  nothing  outrageous  even  in  the  height  of  their 
frenzy ;  they  smashed  the  threshing  machines,  burnt  some 
ricks,  while  the  maddest  of  them  broke  into  a  few  houses 
and  destroyed  their  contents;  but  they  injured  no  man; 
yet  they  knew  what  they  were  facing — the  gallows  or 
transportation  to  the  penal  settlements  ready  for  their 
reception  at  the  Antipodes.  It  is  a  pity  that  the  history 
of  this  rising  of  the  agricultural  labourer,  the  most  patient 
and  submissive  of  men,  has  never  been  written.  Nothing, 
in  fact,  has  ever  been  said  of  it  except  from  the  point 
of  view  of  landowners  and  farmers,  but  there  is  ample 
material  for  a  truer  and  a  moving  narrative,  not  only 
in  the  brief  reports  in  the  papers  of  the  time,  but  also 
in  the  memories  of  many  persons  still  living,  and  of  their 
children  and  children's  children,  preserved  in  many  a 
cottage  throughout  the  south  of  England. 

Hopeless  as  the  revolt  was  and  quickly  suppressed, 
it  had  served  to  alarm  the  landlords  and  their  tenants, 
and  taken  in  conjunction  with  other  outbreaks,  notably 
at  Bristol,  it  produced  a  sense  of  anxiety  in  the  mind  of 
the  country  generally.  The  feeling  found  a  somewhat 
amusing  expression  in  the  House  of  Commons,  in  a 
motion  of  Mr.  Perceval,  on  14  February,  1831.  This 
was  to  move  an  address  to  His  Majesty  to  appoint  a 


OLD   WILTSHIRE    DAYS  231 

day  of  a  general  fast  throughout  the  United  Kingdom. 
He  said  that  "the  state  of  the  country  called  for  a  measure 
like  this — that  it  was  a  state  of  political  and  religious 
disorganization — that  the  elements  of  the  Constitution 
were  being  hourly  loosened — that  in  this  land  there  was 
no  attachment,  no  control,  no  humility  of  spirit,  no 
mutual  confidence  between  the  poor  man  and  the  rich, 
the  employer  and  the  employed;  but  fear  and  mistrust 
and  aversion,  where,  in  the  time  of  our  fathers,  there 
was  nothing  but  brotherly  love  and  rejoicing  before  the 
Lord." 

The  House  was  cynical  and  smilingly  put  the  matter 
by,  but  the  anxiety  was  manifested  plainly  enough  in 
the  treatment  meted  out  to  the  poor  men  who  had  been 
arrested  and  were  tried  before  the  Special  Commissions 
sent  down  to  Salisbury,  Winchester,  and  other  towns. 
No  doubt  it  was  a  pleasant  time  for  the  judges;  at  Salis- 
bury thirty-four  poor  fellows  were  sentenced  to  death; 
thirty-three  to  be  transported  for  life,  ten  for  fourteen 
years,  and  so  on. 

And  here  is  one  last  little  scene  about  which  the  reports 
in  the  newspapers  of  the  time  say  nothing,  but  which  I 
have  from  one  who  witnessed  and  clearly  remembers  it, 
a  woman  of  95,  whose  whole  life  has  been  passed  at  a 
village  within  sound  of  the  Salisbury  Cathedral  bells. 

It  was  when  the  trial  was  ended,  when  those  who  were 
found  guilty  and  had  been  sentenced  were  brought  out 
of  the  court-house  to  be  taken  back  to  prison,  and  from 
all  over  the  Plain  and  from  all  parts  of  Wiltshire  their 
womenfolk  had  come  to  learn  their  fate,  and  were  gath- 
ered, a  pale,  anxious,  weeping  crowd,  outside  the  gates. 
The  sentenced  men  came  out  looking  eagerly  at  the  people 


232  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

until  they  recognized  their  own  and  cried  out  to  them 
to  be  of  good  cheer.  "  'Tis  hanging  for  me,"  one  would 
say,  "but  there'll  perhaps  be  a  recommendation  to  mercy, 
so  don't  you  fret  till  you  know."  Then  another:  "Don't 
go  on  so,  old  mother,  'tis  only  for  life  I'm  sent."  And 
yet  another:  "Don't  you  cry,  old  girl,  'tis  only  fourteen 
years  I've  got,  and  maybe  I'll  live  to  see  you  all  again." 
And  so  on,  as  they  filed  out  past  their  weeping  women 
on  their  way  to  Fisherton  Jail,  to  be  taken  thence  to  the 
transports  in  Portsmouth  and  Plymouth  harbours  want- 
ing to  convey  their  living  freights  to  that  hell  on  earth 
so  far  from  home.  Not  criminals  but  good,  brave  men 
were  these! — Wiltshiremen  of  that  strong,  enduring, 
patient  class,  who  not  only  as  labourers  on  the  land  but 
on  many  a  hard-fought  field  in  many  parts  of  the  world 
from  of  old  down  to  our  war  of  a  few  years  ago  in 
Africa,  have  shown  the  stuff  that  was  in  them! 

But  alas!  for  the  poor  women  who  were  left — for 
the  old  mother  who  could  never  hope  to  see  her  boy 
again,  and  for  the  wife  and  her  children  who  waited 
and  hoped  against  hope  through  long  toiling  years. 

And  dreamed  and  started  as  they  slept 
For  joy  that  he  was  come, 

but  waking  saw  his  face  no  more.  Very  few,  so  far 
as  I  can  make  out,  not  more  than  one  in  five  or  six, 
ever  returned. 

This,  it  may  be  said,  was  only  what  they  might  have 
expected,  the  law  being  what  it  was — just  the  ordinary 
thing.  The  hideous  part  of  the  business  was  that,  as  an 
effect  of  the  alarm  created  in  the  minds  of  those  who 
feared  injury  to  their  property  and  loss  of  power  to 
oppress  the  poor  labourers,  there  was  money  in  plenty 


OLD   WILTSHIRE    DAYS 


233 


subscribed  to  hire  witnesses  for  the  prosecution.  It  was 
necessary  to  strike  terror  into  the  people.  The  smell 
of  blood-money  brought  out  a  number  of  scoundrels 
who  for  a  few  pounds  were  only  too  ready  to  swear 
away  the  life  of  any  man,  and  it  was  notorious  that 
numbers  of  poor  fellows  were  condemned  in  this  way. 

One  incident  as  to  this  point  may  be  given  in  con- 
clusion of  this  chapter  about  old  unhappy  things.  It 
relates  not  to  one  of  those  who  were  sentenced  to  the 


gallows  or  to  transportation,  but  to  an  inquest  and  the 
treatment  of  the  dead. 

I  have  spoken  in  the  last  chapter  of  the  mob  that  visited 
Hindon,  Fonthill,  and  other  villages.  They  ended  their 
round  at  Pytt  House,  near  Tisbury,  where  they  broke 
up  the  machinery.  On  that  occasion  a  body  of  yeomanry 
came  on  the  scene,  but  arrived  only  after  the  mob  had 
accomplished  its  purpose  of  breaking  up  the  threshing 
machines.  When  the  troops  appeared  the  "rioters,"  as 
they  were  called,  made  off  into  the  woods  and  escaped; 
but  before  they  fled  one  of  them  had  met  his  death.  A 
number  of  persons  from  the  farms  and  villages  around 


234  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

had  gathered  at  the  spot  and  were  looking  on,  when 
one,  a  farmer  from  the  neighbouring  village  of  Chilmark, 
snatched  a  gun  from  a  gamekeeper's  hand  and  shot  one 
of  the  rioters,  killing  him  dead.  On  27  January,  1831, 
an  inquest  was  held  on  the  body,  and  some  one  was 
found  to  swear  that  the  man  had  been  shot  by  one  of 
the  yeomanry,  although  it  was  known  to  everybody  that, 
when  the  man  was  shot,  the  troop  had  not  yet  arrived 
on  the  scene.  The  man,  this  witness  stated,  had  attacked, 
or  threatened,  one  of  the  soldiers  with  his  stick,  and  had 
been  shot.  This  was  sufficient  for  the  coroner;  he  in- 
structed his  jury  to  bring  in  a  verdict  of  "Justifiable 
homicide,"  which  they  obediently  did.  "This  verdict," 
the  coroner  then  said,  "entailed  the  same  consequences 
as  an  act  of  felo-de-se,  and  he  felt  that  he  could  not  give 
a  warrant  for  the  burial  of  the  deceased.  However 
painful  the  duty  devolved  on  him  in  thus  adding  to  the 
sorrows  of  the  surviving  relations,  the  law  appeared  too 
clear  to  him  to  admit  of  an  alternative." 

The  coroner  was  just  as  eager  as  the  judges  to  exhibit 
his  zeal  for  the  gentry,  who  were  being  injured  in  their 
interests  by  these  disturbances;  and  though  he  could  not 
hang  anybody,  being  only  a  coroner,  he  could  at  any  rate 
kick  the  one  corpse  brought  before  him.  Doubtless  the 
"surviving  relations,"  for  whose  sorrows  he  had  ex- 
pressed sympathy,  carried  the  poor  murdered  man  off 
by  night  to  hide  him  somewhere  in  the  earth. 

After  the  law  had  been  thus  vindicated  and  all  the 
business  done  with,  even  to  the  corpse-kicking  by  the 
coroner,  the  farmers  were  still  anxious  and  began  to 
show  it  by  holding  meetings  and  discussions  on  the  con- 
ditions of  the  labourers.     Everybody  said  that  the  men 


OLD    WILTSHIRE    DAYS  235 

had  been  very  properly  punished;  but  at  the  same  time 
it  was  admitted  that  they  had  some  reason  for  their 
discontent,  that,  with  bread  so  dear,  it  was  hardly  pos- 
sible for  a  man  with  a  family  to  support  himself  on 
seven  shillings  a  week,  and  it  was  generally  agreed  to 
raise  the  wages  one  shilling.  But  by  and  by  when  the 
anxiety  had  quite  died  out,  when  it  was  found  that  the 
men  were  more  submissive  than  they  had  ever  been,  the 
lesson  they  had  received  having  sunk  deep  into  their 
minds,  they  cut  off  the  extra  shilling,  and  wages  were 
what  they  had  been — seven  shillings  a  week  for  a  hard- 
working seasoned  labourer,  with  a  family  to  keep,  and 
from  four  to  six  shillings  for  young  unmarried  men 
and  for  women,  even  for  those  who  did  as  much  work 
in  the  field  as  any  man. 

But  there  were  no  more  risings. 


*/^V\.  ve  «.  , 


CHAPTER   XIX 


The  Shepherd's  Return 

Yarnborough  Castle  sheep-fair  —  Caleb  leaves  Doveton 
and  goes  into  Dorset — A  land  of  strange  happenings 
— He  is  home-sick  and  returns  to  Winterbourne 
Bishop  —  Joseph,  his  brother,  leaves  home  —  His 
meeting  with  Caleb's  old  master — Settles  in  Dorset 
and  is  joined  by  his  sister  Hannah — They  marry  and 
have  children — I  go  to  look  for  them — ^Joseph  Baw- 
combe  in  extreme  old  age — Hannah  in  decline 

Caleb's  shepherding  period  in  Doveton  came  to  a  some- 
what sudden  conclusion.  It  was  Hearing  the  end  of 
August  and  he  was  beginning  to  think  about  the  sheep 
which  would  have  to  be  taken  to  the  "Castle"  sheep- fair 
on  5  October,  and  it  appeared  strange  to  him  that  his 
master  had  so  far  said  nothing  to  him  on  the  subject. 
By  "Castle"  he  meant  Yarnborough  Castle,  the  name 

2Z6 


THE    SHEPHERD'S    RETURN      237 

of  a  vast  prehistoric  earth-work  on  one  of  the  high 
downs  between  Warminster  and  Amesbury.  There  is 
no  village  there  and  no  house  near;  it  is  nothing  but  an 
immense  circular  wall  and  trench,  inside  of  which  the 
fair  is  held.  It  was  formerly  one  of  the  most  important 
sheep-fairs  in  the  country,  but  for  the  last  two  or  three 
decades  has  been  falling  off  and  is  now  of  little  account. 
When  Bawcombe  was  shepherd  at  Doveton  it  was  still 
great,  and  when  he  first  went  there  as  Mr,  Ellerby's 
head-shepherd  he  found  himself  regarded  as  a  person 
of  considerable  importance  at  the  Castle.  Before  setting 
out  with  the  sheep  he  asked  for  his  master's  instructions 
and  was  told  that  when  he  got  to  the  ground  he  would 
be  directed  by  the  persons  in  charge  to  the  proper  place. 
The  Ellerbys,  he  said,  had  exhibited  and  sold  their  sheep 
there  for  a  period  of  eighty-eight  years,  without  missing 
a  year,  and  always  at  the  same  spot.  Every  person  visit- 
ing the  fair  on  business  knew  just  ■  -here  to  find  the 
Ellerbys'  sheep,  and,  he  added  with  pride,  they  expected 
them  to  be  the  best  sheep  at  the  Castle. 

One  day  Mr.  Ellerby  came  to  have  a  talk  with  his 
shepherd,  and  in  reply  to  a  remark  of  the  latter  about 
the  October  sheep-fair  he  said  that  he  would  have  no 
sheep  to  send.  "No  sheep  to  send,  Master!"  exclaimed 
Caleb  In  amazement.  Then  Mr.  Ellerby  told  him  that 
he  had  taken  a  notion  into  his  head  that  he  wanted  to 
go  abroad  with  his  wife  for  a  time,  and  that  some  person 
had  just  made  him  so  good  an  offer  for  all  his  sheep 
that  he  was  going  to  accept  it,  so  that  for  the  first  time 
in  eighty-eight  years  there  would  be  no  sheep  from  Dove- 
ton  Farm  at  the  Castle  fair.  When  he  came  back  he 
would  buy  again;  but  if  he  could  live  away  from  the 


238  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

farm,  he  would  probably  never  come  back — ^he  would 
sell  it. 

Caleb  went  home  with  a  heavy  heart  and  told  his  wife. 
It  grieved  her,  too,  because  of  her  feeling  for  Mrs.  EUer- 
by,  but  in  a  little  while  she  set  herself  to  comfort  him. 
"Why,  what's  wrong  about  it?"  she  asked.  "  'Twill  be 
more'n  three  months  before  the  year's  out,  and  master'll 
pay  for  all  the  time  sure,  and  we  can  go  home  to  Bishop 
and  bide  a  little  without  work,  and  see  if  that  father 
of  yours  has  forgiven  'ee  for  going  away  to  Warminster." 

So  they  comforted  themselves,  and  were  beginning  to 
think  with  pleasure  of  home  when  Mr.  Ellerby  informed 
his  shepherd  that  a  friend  of  his,  a  good  man  though 
not  a  rich  one,  was  anxious  to  take  him  as  head-shepherd, 
with  good  wages  and  a  good  cottage  rent  free.  The 
only  drawback  for  the  Bawcombes  was  that  it  would 
take  them  still  farther  from  home,  for  the  farm  was  in 
Dorset,  although  quite  near  the  Wiltshire  border. 

Eventually  they  accepted  the  offer,  and  by  the  middle 
of  September  were  once  more  settled  down  in  what  was  to 
them  a  strange  land.  How  strange  it  must  have  seemed 
to  Caleb,  how  far  removed  from  home  and  all  familiar 
things,  when  even  to  this  day,  more  than  forty  years 
later,  he  speaks  of  it  as  the  ordinary  modern  man  might 
speak  of  a  year's  residence  in  Uganda,  Tierra  del  Fuego, 
or  the  Andaman  Islands !  It  was  a  foreign  country,  and 
the  ways  of  the  people  were  strange  to  him,  and  it  was 
a  land  of  very  strange  things.  One  of  the  strangest  was 
an  old  ruined  church  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  farm 
where  he  was  shepherd.  It  was  roofless,  more  than  half 
fallen  down,  and  all  the  standing  portion,  with  the  tower, 
overgrown  with  old  ivy;  the  building  itself  stood  in  the 


THE    SHEPHERD'S    RETURN      239 

centre  of  a  huge  round  earth-work  and  trench,  with  large 
barrows  on  the  ground  outside  the  circle.  Concerning 
this  church  he  had  a  wonderful  story:  its  decay  and  ruin 
had  come  about  after  the  great  bell  in  the  tower  had 
mysteriously  disappeared,  stolen  one  stormy  night,  it  was 
believed,  by  the  Devil  himself.  The  stolen  bell,  it  was 
discovered,  had  been  flung  into  a  small  river  at  a  distance 
of  some  miles  from  the  church,  and  there  in  summer- 
time, when  the  water  was  low,  it  could  be  distinctly  seen 
lying  half  buried  in  the  mud  at  the  bottom.  But  all  the 
king's  horses  and  all  the  king's  men  couldn't  pull  it  out; 
the  Devil,  who  pulled  the  other  way,  was  strongest. 
Eventually  some  wise  person  said  that  a  team  of  white 
oxen  would  be  able  to  pull  it  out,  and  after  much  seeking 
the  white  oxen  were  obtained,  and  thick  ropes  were  tied 
to  the  sunken  bell,  and  the  cattle  were  goaded  and  yelled 
at,  and  tugged  and  strained  until  the  bell  came  up  and 
was  finally  drawn  right  up  to  the  top  of  the  steep,  cliff- 
like bank  of  the  stream.  Then  one  of  the  teamsters 
shouted  in  triumph,  "Now  we've  got  out  the  bell,  in  spite 
of  all  the  devils  in  hell,"  and  no  sooner  had  he  spoken 
the  bold  words  than  the  ropes  parted,  and  back  tumbled 
the  bell  to  its  old  place  at  the  bottom  of  the  river,  where 
it  remains  to  this  day.  Caleb  had  once  met  a  man  in 
those  parts  who  assured  him  that  he  had  seen  the  bell 
with  his  own  eyes,  lying  nearly  buried  in  mud  at  the 
bottom  of  the  stream. 

The  legend  is  not  in  the  history  of  Dorset;  a  much 
more  prosaic  account  of  the  disappearance  of  the  bell 
is  there  given,  in  which  the  Devil  took  no  part  unless 
he  was  at  the  back  of  the  bad  men  who  were  concerned 
in  the  business.     But  in  this  strange,  remote  country, 


240  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

outside  of  "Wiltsheer,"  Bawcombe  was  in  a  region  where 
anything  might  have  happened,  where  the  very  soil  and 
pasture  was  unHke  that  of  his  native  country,  and  the 
mud  adhered  to  his  boots  in  a  most  unaccountable  way. 
It  was  almost  uncanny.  Doubtless  he  was  home-sick,  for 
a  month  or  two  before  the  end  of  the  year  he  asked  his 
master  to  look  out  for  another  shepherd. 

This  was  a  great  disappointment  to  the  farmer:  he 
had  gone  a  distance  from  home  to  secure  a  good  shep- 
herd, and  had  hoped  to  keep  him  permanently,  and  now 
after  a  single  year  he  was  going  to  lose  him.  What  did 
the  shepherd  want  ?  He  would  do  anything  to  please  him, 
and  begged  him  to  stay  another  year.  But  no,  his  mind 
was  set  on  going  back  to  his  own  native  village  and  to 
his  own  people.  And  so  when  his  long  year  was  ended 
he  took  his  crook  and  set  out  over  the  hills  and  valleys, 
followed  by  a  cart  containing  his  "sticks"  and  wife  and 
children.  And  at  home  with  his  old  parents  and  his 
people  he  was  happy  once  more ;  in  a  short  time  he  found 
a  place  as  head-shepherd,  with  a  cottage  in  the  village, 
and  followed  his  flock  on  the  old  familiar  down,  and 
everything  again  was  as  it  had  been  from  the  beginning 
of  life  and  as  he  desired  it  to  be  even  to  the  end. 

His  return  resulted  incidentally  in  other  changes  and 
migrations  in  the  Bawcombe  family.  His  elder  brother 
Joseph,  unmarried  still  although  his  senior  by  about 
eight  years,  had  not  got  on  well  at  home.  He  was  a 
person  of  a  peculiar  disposition,  so  silent  with  so  fixed 
and  unsmiling  an  expression,  that  he  gave  the  idea  of  a 
stolid,  thick-skinned  man,  but  at  bottom  he  was  of  a 
sensitive  nature,  and  feeling  that  his  master  did  not  treat 
him  properly,  he  gave  up  his  place  and  was  for  a  long 


THE    SHEPHERD'S    RETURN      241 

time  without  one.  He  was  singularly  attentive  to  all 
that  fell  from  Caleb  about  his  wide  wanderings  and 
strange  experiences,  especially  in  the  distant  Dorset  coun- 
try;  and  at  length,  about  a  year  after  his  brother's  return, 
he  announced  his  intention  of  going  away  from  his  native 
place  for  good  to  seek  his  fortune  in  some  distant  place 
where  his  services  would  perhaps  be  better  appreciated. 
When  asked  where  he  intended  going,  he  answered  that 
he  was  going  to  look  for  a  place  in  that  part  of  Dorset 
where  Caleb  had  been  shepherd  for  a  year  and  had  been 
so  highly  thought  of. 

Now  Joseph,  being  a  single  man,  had  no  "sticks"; 
all  his  possessions  went  into  a  bundle,  which  he  carried 
tied  to  his  crook,  and  with  his  sheep-dog  following  at 
his  heels  he  set  forth  early  one  morning  on  the  most 
important  adventure  of  his  life.  Then  occurred  an  in- 
stance of  what  we  call  a  coincidence,  but  which  the 
shepherd  of  the  downs,  nursed  in  the  old  beliefs  and 
traditions,  prefers  to  regard  as  an  act  of  providence. 

About  noon  he  was  trudging  along  in  the  turnpike 
road  when  he  was  met  by  a  farmer  driving  in  a  trap, 
who  pulled  up  to  speak  to  him  and  asked  him  if  he  could 
say  how  far  it  was  to  Winterbourne  Bishop.  Joseph 
replied  that  it  was  about  fourteen  miles — he  had  left 
Bishop  that  morning. 

Then  the  farmer  asked  him  if  he  knew  a  man  there 
named  Caleb  Bawcombe,  and  if  he  had  a  place  as  shep- 
herd there,  as  he  was  now  on  his  way  to  look  for  him 
and  to  try  and  persuade  him  to  go  back  to  Dorset,  where 
he  had  been  his  head-shepherd  for  the  space  of  a  year. 

Joseph  said  that  Caleb  had  a  place  as  head-shepherd 
on  a  farm  at  Bishop,  that  he  was  satisfied  with  it,  and 


242  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

was  moreover  one  that  preferred  to  bide  in  his  native 
place. 

The  farmer  was  disappointed,  and  the  other  added, 
"Maybe  you've  heard  Caleb  speak  of  his  elder  brother 
Joseph — I  be  he." 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  farmer.  "You're  Caleb's 
brother !    Where  be  going  then  ? — to  a  new  place  ?" 

"I've  got  no  place;  I  be  going  to  look  for  a  place  in 
Dorsetsheer." 

"  'Tis  strange  to  hear  you  say  that,"  exclaimed  the 
farmer.  He  was  going,  he  said,  to  see  Caleb,  and  if 
he  would  not  or  could  not  go  back  to  Dorset  himself 
to  ask  him  to  recommend  some  man  of  the  village  to 
him;  for  he  was  tired  of  the  ways  of  the  shepherds  of 
his  own  part  of  the  country,  and  his  heart  was  set  on 
getting  a  man  from  Caleb's  village,  where  shepherds 
understood  sheep  and  knew  their  work.  "Now  look 
here,  shepherd,"  he  continued,  "if  you'll  engage  yourself 
to  me  for  a  year  I'll  go  no  farther  but  take  you  right  back 
with  me  in  the  trap." 

The  shepherd  was  very  glad  to  accept  the  offer;  he 
devoutly  believed  that  in  making  it  the  farmer  was  but 
acting  in  accordance  with  the  will  of  a  Power  that  was 
mindful  of  man  and  kept  watch  on  him,  even  on  his  poor 
servant  Joseph,  who  had  left  his  home  and  people  to  be 
a  stranger  in  a  strange  land. 

So  well  did  servant  and  master  agree  that  Joseph  never 
had  occasion  to  look  for  another  place ;  when  his  master 
died  an  old  man,  his  son  succeeded  him  as  tenant  of  the 
farm,  and  he  continued  with  the  son  until  he  was  past 
work.  Before  his  first  year  was  out,  his  younger  sister, 
Hannah,  came  to  live  with  him  and  keep  house,  and  even- 


THE   SHEPHERD'S    RETURN      243 

tually  they  both  got  married,  Joseph  to  a  young  woman 
of  the  place,  and  Hannah  to  a  small  working  farmer 
whose  farm  was  about  a  mile  from  the  village.  Children 
were  born  to  both,  and  in  time  grew  up,  Joseph's  sons 
following  their  father's  vocation,  while  Hannah's  were 
brought  up  to  work  on  the  farm.  And  some  of  them, 
too,  got  married  in  time  and  had  children  of  their  own. 

These  are  the  main  incidents  in  the  lives  of  Joseph  and 
Hannah,  related  to  me  at  different  times  by  their  brother ; 
he  had  followed  their  fortunes  from  a  distance,  some- 
times getting  a  message,  or  hearing  of  them  incidentally, 
but  he  did  not  see  them.  Joseph  never  returned  to  his 
native  village,  and  the  visits  of  Hannah  to  her  old  home 
had  been  few  and  had  long  ceased.  But  he  cherished 
a  deep  enduring  affection  for  both ;  he  was  always  anx- 
iously waiting  and  hoping  for  tidings  of  them,  for  Joseph 
was  now  a  feeble  old  man  living  with  one  of  his  sons, 
and  Hannah,  long  a  widow,  was  in  declining  health,  but 
still  kept  the  farm,  assisted  by  one  of  her  sons  and  two 
unmarried  daughters.  Though  he  had  not  heard  for  a 
long  time  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  write,  nor  did  they 
ever  write  to  him. 

Then,  when  I  was  staying  at  Winterbourne  Bishop 
and  had  the  intention  of  shortly  paying  a  visit  to  Caleb, 
it  occurred  to  me  one  day  to  go  into  Dorset  and  look  for 
these  absent  ones,  so  as  to  be  able  to  give  him  an  account 
of  their  state.  It  was  not  a  long  journey,  and  arriving 
at  the  village  I  soon  found  a  son  of  Joseph,  a  fine-looking 
man,  who  took  me  to  Jiis  cottage,  where  his  wife  led  me 
into  the  old  shepherd's  room.  I  found  him  very  aged 
in  appearance,  with  a  grey  face  and  sunken  cheeks,  lying 
on  his  bed  and  breathing  with  difficulty ;  but  when  I  spoke 


244  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

to  him  of  Caleb  a  light  of  joy  came  into  his  eyes,  and 
he  raised  himself  on  his  pillows,  and  questioned  me  eag- 
erly about  his  brother's  state  and  family,  and  begged 
me  to  assure  Caleb  that  he  was  still  quite  well,  although 
too  feeble  to  get  about  much,  and  that  his  children  were 
taking  good  care  of  him. 

From  the  old  brother  I  went  on  to  seek  the  young 
sister — there  was  a  difference  of  more  than  twenty  years 
in  their  respective  ages — and  found  her  at  dinner  in 
the  large  old  farm-house  kitchen.  At  all  events  she  was 
presiding,  the  others  present  being  her  son,  their  hired 
labourer,  the  farm  boy,  and  two  unmarried  daughters. 
She  herself  tasted  no  food.  I  joined  them  at  their  meal, 
and  it  gladdened  and  saddened  me  at  the  same  time  to 
be  with  this  woman,  for  she  was  Caleb's  sister,  and  was 
attractive  in  herself,  looking  strangely  young  for  her 
age,  with  beautiful  dark,  soft  eyes  and  but  few  white 
threads  in  her  abundant  black  hair.  The  attraction  was 
also  in  her  voice  and  speech  and  manner ;  but,  alas,  there 
was  that  In  her  face  which  was  painful  to  witness — the 
signs  of  long  suffering,  of  nights  that  bring  no  refresh- 
ment, an  expression  in  the  eyes  of  one  that  is  looking 
anxiously  out  into  the  dim  distance — a  vast  unbounded 
prospect,  but  with  clouds  and  darkness  resting  on  It. 

It  was  not  without  a  feeling  of  heaviness  at  the  heart 
that  I  said  good-bye  to  her,  nor  was  I  surprised  when, 
less  than  a  year  later,  Caleb  received  news  of  her  death. 


CHAPTER   XX 
The  Dark  People  of  the  Village 

How  the  materials  for  this  book  were  obtained — The 
hedgehog-hunter — A  gipsy  taste — History  of  a  dark- 
skinned  family  —  Hedgehog-eaters  —  Half-bred  and 
true  gipsies — Perfect  health — Eating  carrion — Mys- 
terious knowledge  and  faculties  —  The  three  dark 
Wiltshire  types — Story  of  another  dark  man  of  the 
village  —  Account  of  Liddy  —  His  shepherding  —  A 
happy  life  with  horses — Dies  of  a  broken  heart — 
His  daughter 

I  HAVE  sometimes  laughed  to  myself  when  thinking  how 
a  large  part  of  the  material  composing  this  book  was 
collected.  It  came  to  me  in  conversations,  at  intervals, 
during  several  years,  with  the  shepherd.  In  his  long 
life  in  his  native  village,  a  good  deal  of  it  spent  on  the 
quiet  down,  he  had  seen  many  things  it  was  or  would 
be  interesting  to  hear;  the  things  which  had  interested 
him,  too,  at  the  time,  and  had  fallen  into  oblivion,  yet 
might  be  recovered.     I  discovered  that  it  was  of  little 

245 


246  A   SHEPHERD'S   LIFE 

use  to  question  him:  the  one  valuable  recollection  he 
possessed  on  any  subject  would,  as  a  rule,  not  be  available 
when  wanted;  it  would  lie  just  beneath  the  surface  so 
to  speak,  and  he  would  pass  and  repass  over  the  ground 
without  seeing  it.  He  would  not  know  that  it  was  there ; 
it  would  be  like  the  acorn  which  a  jay  or  squirrel  has 
hidden  and  forgotten  all  about,  which  he  will  neverthe- 
less recover  some  day  if  by  chance  something  occurs  to 
remind  him  of  it.  The  only  method  was  to  talk  about 
the  things  he  knew,  and  when  by  chance  he  was  reminded 
of  some  old  experience  or  some  little  observation  or 
incident  worth  hearing,  to  make  a  note  of  it,  then  wait 
patiently  for  something  else.  It  was  a  very  slow  process, 
but  it  is  not  unlike  the  one  we  practise  always  with  regard 
to  wild  nature.  We  are  not  in  a  hurry,  but  are  always 
watchful,  with  eyes  and  ears  and  mind  open  to  what 
may  come ;  it  is  a  mental  habit,  and  when  nothing  comes 
we  are  not  disappointed — the  act  of  watching  has  been 
a  sufficient  pleasure;  and  when  something  does  come 
we  take  it  joyfully  as  if  it  were  a  gift — b.  valuable  object 
picked  up  by  chance  in  our  walks. 

When  I  turned  into  the  shepherd's  cottage,  if  It  was 
in  winter  and  he  was  sitting  by  the  fire,  I  would  sit  and 
smoke  with  him,  and  if  we  were  in  a  talking  mood  I 
would  tell  him  where  I  had  been  and  what  I  had  heard 
and  seen,  on  the  heath,  in  the  woods,  in  the  village,  or 
anywhere,  on  the  chance  of  its  reminding  him  of  some- 
thing worth  hearing  in  his  past  life. 

One  Sunday  morning,  In  the  late  summer,  during  one 
of  my  visits  to  him,  I  was  out  walking  in  the  woods  and 
found  a  man  of  the  village,  a  farm  labourer,  with  his 
small  boy  hunting  for  hedgehogs.     He  had  caught  and 


DARK  PEOPLE  OF  THE  VILLAGE    247 

killed  two  which  the  boy  was  carrying.  He  told  me 
he  was  very  fond  of  the  flesh  of  hedgehogs — "pigs," 
he  called  them  for  short ;  he  said  he  would  not  exchange 
one  for  a  rabbit.  He  always  spent  his  holidays  pig-hunt- 
ing ;  he  had  no  dog  and  didn't  want  one ;  he  found  them 
himself,  and  his  method  was  to  look  for  the  kind  of 
place  in  which  they  were  accustomed  to  live — a  thick 
mass  of  bramble  growing  at  the  side  of  an  old  ditch  as 
a  rule.  He  would  force  his  way  into  it  and,  moving 
round  and  round,  trample  down  the  roots  and  loose 
earth  and  dead  leaves  with  his  heavy  iron-shod  boots 
until  he  broke  into  the  nest  or  cell  of  the  spiny  little 
beast  hidden  away  under  the  bush. 

He  was  a  short,  broad-faced  man,  with  a  brown  skin, 
black  hair,  and  intensely  black  eyes.  Talking  with  the 
shepherd  that  evening  I  told  him  of  the  encounter,  and 
remarked  that  the  man  was  probably  a  gipsy  in  blood, 
although  a  labourer,  living  in  the  village  and  married  to 
a  woman  with  blue  eyes  who  belonged  to  the  place. 

This  incident  reminded  him  of  a  family,  named  Tar- 
gett,  in  his  native  village,  consisting  of  four  brothers 
and  a  sister.  He  knew  them  first  when  he  was  a  boy 
himself,  but  could  not  remember  their  parents.  "It 
seemed  as  if  they  didn't  have  any,"  he  said.  The  four 
brothers  were  very  much  alike:  short,  with  broad  faces, 
black  eyes  and  hair,  and  brown  skins.  They  were  good 
workers,  but  somehow  they  were  never  treated  by  the 
farmers  like  the  other  men.  They  were  paid  less  wages 
— as  much  as  two  to  four  shillings  a  week  less  per  man 
— and  made  to  do  things  that  others  would  not  do,  and 
generally  imposed  upon.  It  was  known  to  every  em- 
ployer of  labour  in  the  place  that  they  could  be  imposed 


248  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

upon;  yet  they  were  not  fools,  and  occasionally  if  their 
master  went  too  far  in  bullying  and  abusing  them  and 
compelling  them  to  work  overtime  every  day,  they  would 
have  sudden  violent  outbursts  of  rage  and  go  off  without 
any  pay  at  all.  What  became  of  their  sister  he  never 
knew:  but  none  of  the  four  brothers  ever  married;  they 
lived  together  always,  and  two  died  in  the  village,  the 
other  two  going  to  finish  their  lives  in  the  workhouse. 

One  of  the  curious  things  about  these  brothers  was 
that  they  had  a  passion  for  eating  hedgehogs.  They 
had  it  from  boyhood,  and  as  boys  used  to  go  a  distance 
from  home  and  spend  the  day  hunting  in  hedges  and 
thickets.  When  they  captured  a  hedgehog  they  would 
make  a  small  fire  in  some  sheltered  spot  and  roast  it, 
and  while  It  was  roasting  one  of  them  would  go  to  the 
nearest  cottage  to  beg  for  a  pinch  of  salt,  which  was 
generally  given. 

These,  too,  I  said,  must  have  been  gipsies,  at  all  events 
on  one  side.  Where  there  is  a  cross  the  gipsy  strain  is 
generally  strongest,  although  the  children,  if  brought  up 
in  the  community,  often  remain  in  it  all  their  lives;  but 
they  are  never  quite  of  it.  Their  love  of  wildness  and 
of  eating  wild  flesh  remains  in  them,  and  it  is  also  prob- 
able that  there  is  an  instability  of  character,  a  restlessness, 
which  the  small  farmers  who  usually  employ  such  men 
know  and  trade  on;  the  gipsy  who  takes  to  farm  work 
must  not  look  for  the  same  treatment  as  the  big-framed, 
white-skinned  man  who  is  as  strong,  enduring,  and  un- 
changeable as  a  draught  horse  or  ox,  and  constant  as 
the  sun  itself. 

The  gipsy  element  Is  found  in  many  if  not  most  vil- 
lages in  the  south  of  England.    I  know  one  large  scattered 


DARK  PEOPLE  OF  THE  VILLAGE    249 

village  where  it  appears  predominant — as  dirty  and  dis- 
orderly-looking a  place  as  can  be  imagined,  the  ground 
round  every  cottage  resembling  a  gipsy  camp,  but  worse 
owing  to  its  greater  litter  of  old  rags  and  rubbish  strewn 
about.  But  the  people,  like  all  gipsies,  are  not  so  poor 
as  they  look,  and  most  of  the  cottagers  keep  a  trap  and 
pony  with  which  they  scour  the  country  for  many  miles 
around  in  quest  of  bones,  rags,  and  bottles,  and  anything 
else  they  can  buy  for  a  few  pence,  also  anything  they 
can  "pick  up"  for  nothing. 

This  is  almost  the  only  kind  of  settled  life  which  a 
man  with  a  good  deal  of  gipsy  blood  in  him  can  tolerate ; 
it  affords  some  scope  for  his  chaffering  and  predatory 
instincts  and  satisfies  the  roving  passion,  which  is  not 
so  strong  in  those  of  mixed  blood.  But  it  is  too  re- 
spectable or  humdrum  a  life  for  the  true,  undegenerate 
gipsy.  One  wet  evening  in  September  last  I  was  prowling 
in  a  copse  near  Shrewton,  watching  the  birds,  when  I 
encountered  a  young  gipsy  and  recognized  him  as  one 
of  a  gang  of  about  a  dozen  I  had  met  several  days  before 
near  Salisbury.  They  were  on  their  way,  they  had  told 
me,  to  a  village  near  Shaftesbury,  where  they  hoped 
to  remain  a  week  or  so. 

"What  are  you  doing  here?"  I  asked  my  gipsy. 

He  said  he  had  been  to  Idmiston;  he  had  been  on  his 
legs  out  in  the  rain  and  wet  to  the  skin  since  morning. 
He  didn't  mind  that  much  as  the  wet  didn't  hurt  him 
and  he  was  not  tired;  but  he  had  eight  miles  to  walk 
yet  over  the  downs  to  a  village  on  the  Wylye  where  his 
people  were  staying. 

I  remarked  that  I  had  thought  they  were  staying  over 
Shaftesbury  way. 


250  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

He  then  looked  sharply  at  me.  "Ah,  yes,"  he  said, 
"I  remember  we  met  you  and  had  some  talk  a  fortnight 
ago.  Yes,  we  went  there,  but  they  wouldn't  have  us. 
They  soon  ordered  us  off.  They  advised  us  to  settle 
down  if  we  wanted  to  stay  anywhere.  Settle  down! 
I'd  rather  be  dead!" 

There  spoke  the  true  gipsy;  and  they  are  mostly  of 
that  mind.  But  what  a  mind  it  is  for  human  beings  in 
this  climate!  It  is  in  a  year  like  this  of  1909,  when  a 
long  cold  winter  and  a  miserable  spring,  with  frosty 
nights  lasting  well  into  June,  was  followed  by  a  cold  wet 
summer  and  a  wet  autumn,  that  we  can  see  properly 
what  a  mind  and  body  is  his — how  infinitely  more  per- 
fect the  correspondence  between  organism  and  environ- 
ment in  his  case  than  in  ours,  who  have  made  our  own 
conditions,  who  have  not  only  houses  to  live  in,  but  a 
vast  army  of  sanitary  inspectors,  physicians  and  bacteri- 
ologists to  safeguard  us  from  that  wicked  stepmother 
who  is  anxious  to  get  rid  of  us  before  our  time!  In  all 
this  miserable  year,  during  which  I  have  met  and  con- 
versed with  and  visited  many  scores  of  gipsies,  I  have 
not  found  one  who  was  not  in  a  cheerful  frame  of  mind, 
even  when  he  was  under  a  cloud  with  the  police  on  his 
track;  nor  one  with  a  cold,  or  complaining  of  an  ache 
in  his  bones,  or  of  indigestion. 

The  subject  of  gipsies  catching  cold  connects  itself 
just  now  in  my  mind  with  that  of  the  gipsies'  sense  of 
humour.  He  has  that  sense,  and  It  makes  him  happy 
when  he  is  reposing  in  the  bosom  of  his  family  and  can 
give  it  free  vent;  but  the  instant  you  appear  on  the 
scene  its  gracious  outward  signs  vanish  like  lightning 
and  he  is  once  more  the  sly,  subtle  animal,  watching  you 


DARK  PEOPLE  OF  THE  VILLAGE    251 

furtively,  but  with  the  intensity  of  Gip  the  cat,  described 
in  a  former  chapter.  When  you  have  left  him  and  he 
relaxes  the  humour  will  come  back  to  him;  for  it  is  a 
humour  similar  to  that  of  some  of  the  lower  animals, 
especially  birds  of  the  crow  family,  and  of  primitive 
people,  only  more  highly  developed,  and  is  concerned 
mainly  with  the  delight  of  trickery — with  getting  the 
better  of  some  one  and  the  huge  enjoyment  resulting 
from  the  process. 

One  morning,  between  nine  and  ten  o'clock,  during  the 
excessively  cold  spell  near  the  end  of  November,  1909, 
I  paid  a  visit  to  some  gipsies  I  knew  at  their  camp.  The 
men  had  already  gone  off  for  the  day,  but  some  of  the 
women  were  there — a  young  married  woman,  two  big 
girls,  and  six  or  seven  children.  It  was  a  hard  frost  and 
their  sleeping  accommodation  was  just  as  in  the  summer- 
time— bundles  of  straw  and  old  rugs  placed  in  or  against 
little  half-open  canvas  and  rag  shelters;  but  they  all  ap- 
peared remarkably  well,  and  some  of  the  children  were 
standing  on  the  hard  frozen  ground  with  bare  feet.  They 
assured  me  that  they  were  all  well,  that  they  hadn't  caught 
colds  and  didn't  mind  the  cold.  I  remarked  that  I  had 
thought  the  severe  frost  might  have  proved  too  much 
for  some  of  them  in  that  high,  unsheltered  spot  in  the 
downs,  and  that  if  I  had  found  one  of  the  children  down 
with  a  cold  I  should  have  given  it  a  sixpence  to  comfort 
it.  "Oh,"  cried  the  young  married  woman,  "there's  my 
poor  six  months'  old  baby  half  dead  of  a  cold;  he's  very 
bad,  poor  dear,  and  I'm  in  great  trouble  about  him," 

"He  is  bad,  the  darling!"  cried  one  of  the  big  girls. 
"I'll  soon  show  you  how  bad  he  is!"  and  with  that  she 
dived  into  a  pile  of  straw  and  dragged  out  a  huge  fat 


252  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

sleeping  baby.  Holding  it  up  in  her  arms  she  begged 
me  to  look  at  it  to  see  how  bad  it  was;  the  fat  baby 
slowly  opened  its  drowsy  eyes  and  blinked  at  the  sun,  but 
uttered  no  sound,  for  it  was  not  a  crying  baby,  but  was 
like  a  great  fat  retriever  pup  pulled  out  of  its  warm  bed. 

How  healthy  they  are  is  hardly  known  even  to  those 
who  make  a  special  study  of  these  aliens,  who,  albeit 
aliens,  are  yet  more  native  than  any  Englishman  in  the 
land.  It  is  not  merely  their  indifference  to  wet  and  cold ; 
more  wonderful  still  is  their  dog-like  capacity  of  assimi- 
lating food  which  to  us  would  be  deadly.  This  is  indeed 
not  a  nice  or  pretty  subject,  and  I  will  give  but  one  in- 
stance to  illustrate  my  point ;  the  reader  with  a  squeamish 
stomach  may  skip  the  ensuing  paragraph. 

An  old  shepherd  of  Chitterne  relates  that  a  family, 
or  gang,  of  gipsies  used  to  turn  up  from  time  to  time 
at  the  village;  he  generally  saw  them  at  lambing-time, 
when  one  of  the  heads  of  the  party  with  whom  he  was 
friendly  would  come  round  to  see  what  he  had  to  give 
them.  On  one  occasion  his  gipsy  friend  appeared,  and 
after  some  conversation  on  general  subjects,  asked  him 
if  he  had  anything  in  his  way.  "No,  nothing  this  time," 
said  the  shepherd.  "Lambing  was  over  two  or  three 
months  ago  and  there's  nothing  left — no  dead  lamb.  I 
hung  up  a  few  cauls  on  a  beam  in  the  old  shed,  thinking 
they  would  do  for  the  dogs,  but  forgot  them  and  they 
went  bad  and  then  dried  up." 

"They'll  do  very  well  for  us,"  said  his  friend. 

"No,  don't  you  take  them!"  cried  the  shepherd  in 
alarm ;  "I  tell  you  they  went  bad  months  ago,  and  'twould 
kill  anyone  to  eat  such  stuff.  They've  dried  up  now, 
and  are  dry  and  black  as  old  skin." 


DARK  PEOPLE  OF  THE  VILLAGE    253 

"That  doesn't  matter — wc  know  how  to  make  them 
all  right,"  said  the  gipsy.  "Soaked  with  a  little  salt,  then 
boiled,  they'll  do  very  well."     And  off  he  carried  them. 

In  reading  the  reports  of  the  Assizes  held  at  Salis- 
bury from  the  late  eighteenth  century  down  to  about 
1840,  it  surprised  me  to  find  how  rarely  a  gipsy  appeared 
in  that  long,  sad,  monotonous  procession  of  "criminals" 
who  passed  before  the  man  sitting  with  his  black  cap  on 
his  head,  and  were  sent  to  the  gallows  or  to  the  penal 
settlements  for  stealing  sheep  and  fowls  and  ducks  or 
anything  else.  Yet  the  gipsies  were  abundant  then  as 
now,  living  the  same  wild,  lawless  life,  quartering  the 
country,  and  hanging  round  the  villages  to  spy  out  every- 
thing stealable.  The  man  caught  was  almost  invariably 
the  poor,  slow-minded,  heavy-footed  agricultural  la- 
bourer; the  light,  quick-moving,  cunning  gipsy  escaped. 
In  the  "Salisbury  Journal"  for  1820  I  find  a  communi- 
cation on  this  subject,  in  which  the  writer  says  that  a 
common  trick  of  the  gipsies  was  to  dig  a  deep  pit  at  their 
camp  in  which  to  bury  a  stolen  sheep,  and  on  this  spot 
they  would  make  their  camp  fire.  If  the  sheep  was  not 
missed,  or  if  no  report  of  its  loss  was  made  to  the  police, 
the  thieves  would  soon  be  able  to  dig  it  up  and  enjoy  it; 
but  if  inquiries  were  made  they  would  have  to  wait  until 
the  affair  had  blown  over. 

It  amused  me  to  find,  from  an  Incident  related  to  me 
by  a  workman  in  a  village  where  I  was  staying  lately, 
that  this  simple,  ancient  device  is  still  practised  by  the 
gipsies.  My  informant  said  that  on  going  out  at  about 
four  o'clock  one  morning  during  the  late  summer  he  was 
surprised  at  seeing  two  gipsies  with  a  pony  and  cart  at 
the  spot  where  a  party  of  them  had  been  encamped  a 


254  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

fortnight  before.  He  watched  them,  himself  unseen, 
and  saw  that  they  were  digging  a  pit  on  the  spot  where 
they  had  had  their  fire.  They  took  out  several  objects 
from  the  ground,  but  he  was  too  far  away  to  make  out 
what  they  were.  They  put  them  in  the  cart  and  covered 
them  over,  then  filled  up  the  pit,  trampled  the  earth  well 
down,  and  put  the  ashes  and  burnt  sticks  back  in  the 
same  place,  after  which  they  got  into  the  cart  and  drove 
off. 

Of  course  a  man,  even  a  nomad,  must  have  some 
place  to  conceal  his  treasures  or  belongings  in,  and  the 
gipsy  has  no  cellar  nor  attic  nor  secret  cupboard,  and 
as  for  his  van  it  is  about  the  last  place  in  which  he  would 
bestow  anything  of  value  or  incriminating,  for  though 
he  is  always  on  the  move,  he  is,  moving  or  sitting  still, 
always  under  a  cloud.  The  ground  is  therefore  the 
safest  place  to  hide  things  in,  especially  in  a  country 
like  the  Wiltshire  Downs,  though  he  may  use  rocks  and 
hollow  trees  in  other  districts.  His  habit  is  that  of  the 
jay  and  magpie,  and  of  the  dog  with  a  bone  to  put  by 
till  it  is  wanted.  Possibly  the  rural  police  have  not  yet 
discovered  this  habit  of  the  gipsy.  Indeed,  the  contrast 
in  mind  and  locomotive  powers  between  the  gipsy  and 
the  village  policeman  has  often  amused  me;  the  former 
most  like  the  thievish  jay,  ever  on  mischief  bent;  the 
other,  who  has  his  eye  on  him,  is  more  like  the  portly 
Cochin-China  fowl  of  the  farmyard,  or  the  Muscovy 
duck,  or  stately  gobbler. 

To  go  back.  When  the  buried  sheep  had  to  be  kept 
too  long  buried  and  was  found  "gone  bad"  when  dis- 
interred, I  fancy  it  made  little  difference  to  the  diners. 
One  remembers  Thoreau's  pleasure  at  the  spectacle  of 


DARK  PEOPLE  OF  THE  VILLAGE    255 

a  crowd  of  vultures  feasting  on  the  carrion  of  a  dead 
horse;  the  fine  healthy  appetite  and  boundless  vigour  of 
nature  filled  him  with  delight.  But  it  is  not  only  some 
of  the  lower  animals — dogs  and  vultures,  for  instance 
— which  possess  this  power  and  immunity  from  the  effects 
of  poisons  developed  in  putrid  meat;  the  Greenlanders 
and  African  savages,  and  many  other  peoples  in  various 
parts  of  the  world,  have  it  as  well. 

Sometimes  when  sitting  with  gipsies  at  their  wild 
hearth,  I  have  felt  curious  as  to  the  contents  of  that 
black  pot  simmering  over  the  fire.  No  doubt  it  often 
contains  strange  meats,  but  it  would  not  have  been  eti- 
quette to  speak  of  such  a  matter.  It  is  like  the  pot  on 
the  fire  of  the  Venezuela  savage  into  which  he  throws 
w^hatever  he  kills  with  his  little  poisoned  arrows  or  fishes 
out  of  the  river.  Probably  my  only  quarrel  with  them 
would  be  about  the  little  fledgelings:  it  angers  me  to 
see  them  beating  the  bushes  in  spring  in  search  of  small 
nestles  and  the  callow  young  that  are  in  them.  After 
all,  the  gipsies  could  retort  that  my  friends  the  jays  and 
magpies  are  at  the  same  business  in  April  and  May. 

It  is  just  these  habits  of  the  gipsy  which  I  have  de- 
scribed, shocking  to  the  moralist  and  sanitarian  and 
disgusting  to  the  person  of  delicate  stomach,  it  may  be, 
which  please  me,  rather  than  the  romance  and  poetry 
which  the  scholar-gipsy  enthusiasts  are  fond  of  reading 
into  him.  He  is  to  me  a  wild,  untameable  animal  of 
curious  habits,  and  interests  me  as  a  naturalist  accord- 
ingly. It  may  be  objected  that  being  a  naturalist  occupied 
with  the  appearance  of  things,  I  must  inevitably  miss 
the  one  thing  which  others  find. 

In  a  talk  I  had  with  a  gipsy  a  short  time  ago,  he  said 


256  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

to  me :  "You  know  what  the  .books  say,  and  we  don't. 
But  we  know  other  things  that  are  not  in  the  books,  and 
that's  what  we  have.  It's  ours,  our  own,  and  you  can't 
know  it." 

It  was  well  put;  but  I  was  not  perhaps  so  entirely 
ignorant  as  he  imagined  of  the  nature  of  that  special 
knowledge,  or  shall  we  say  faculty,  which  he  claimed. 
I  take  it  to  be  cunning — the  cunning  of  a  wild  animal 
with  a  man's  brain — and  a  small,  an  infinitesimal,  dose 
of  something  else  which  eludes  us.  But  that  something 
else  is  not  of  a  spiritual  nature:  the  gipsy  has  no  such 
thing  in  him;  the  soul  growths  are  rooted  in  the  social 
instinct,  and  are  developed  in  those  in  which  that  instinct 
is  strong.  I  think  that  if  we  analyse  that  dose  of  some- 
thing else,  we  will  find  that  it  is  still  the  animal's  cunning, 
a  special,  a  sublimated  cunning,  the  fine  flower  of  his 
whole  nature,  and  that  it  has  nothing  mysterious  in  it. 
He  is  a  parasite,  but  free  and  as  well  able  to  exist  free 
as  the  fox  or  jackal;  but  the  parasitism  pays  him  well, 
and  he  has  followed  it  so  long  in  his  intercourse  with 
social  man  that  it  has  come  to  be  like  an  instinct,  or  secret 
knowledge,  and  is  nothing  more  than  a  marvellously  keen 
penetration  which  reveals  to  him  the  character  and  de- 
gree of  credulity  and  other  mental  weaknesses  of  his 
subject. 

It  is  not  so  much  the  wind  on  the  heath,  brother,  as 
the  fascination  of  lawlessness,  which  makes  his  life  an 
everlasting  joy  to  him ;  to  pit  himself  against  gamekeeper, 
farmer,  policeman,  and  everybody  else,  and  defeat  them 
all,  to  flourish  like  the  parasitic  fly  on  the  honey  in  the 
hive  and  escape  the  wrath  of  the  bees. 

I  must  now  return  from  this  long  digression  to  my 


DARK  PEOPLE  OF  THE  VILLAGE    257 

conversation  with  the  shepherd  about  the  dark  people  of 
the  village. 

There  were,  I  continued,  other  black-eyed  and  black- 
haired  people  in  the  villages  who  had  no  gipsy  blood 
in  their  veins.  So  far  as  I  could  make  out  there  were 
dark  people  of  three  originally  distinct  and  widely  dif- 
ferent races  in  the  Wiltshire  Downs.  There  was  a  good 
deal  of  mixed  blood,  no  doubt,  and  many  dark  persons 
could  not  be  identified  as  belonging  to  any  particular 
race.  Nevertheless  three  distinct  types  could  be  traced 
among  the  dark  people,  and  I  took  them  to  be,  first,  the 
gipsy,  rather  short  of  stature, .brown-skinned,  with  broad 
face  and  high  cheek-bones,  like  the  men  we  had  just  been 
speaking  of.  Secondly,  the  men  and  women  of  white 
skins  and  good  features,  who  had  rather  broad  faces  and 
round  heads,  and  were  physically  and  mentally  just  as 
good  as  the  best  blue-eyed  people ;  these  were  probably 
the  descendants  of  the  dark,  broad-faced  Wilsetae,  who 
came  over  at  the  time  when  the  country  was  being  over- 
run with  the  English  and  other  nations  or  tribes,  and 
who  colonized  in  Wiltshire  and  gave  it  their  name.  The 
third  type  differed  widely  from  both  the  others.  They 
were  smallest  in  size  and  had  narrow  heads  and  long 
or  oval  faces,  and  were  very  dark,  with  brown  skins; 
they  also  differed  mentally  from  the  others,  being  of  a 
more  lively  disposition  and  hotter  temper.  The  char- 
acters which  distinguish  the  ancient  British  or  Iberian 
race  appeared  to  predominate  in  persons  of  this  type. 

The  shepherd  said  he  didn't  know  much  about  "all 
that,"  but  he  remembered  that  they  once  had  a  man  in 
the  village  who  was  like  the  last  kind  I  had  described. 
He  was  a  labourer  named  Tark,  who  had  several  sons, 


258  A   SHEPHERD'S   LIFE 

and  when  they  were  grown  up  there  was  a  last  one  born: 
he  had  to  be  the  last  because  his  mother  died  when  she 
gave  him  birth;  and  that  last  one  was  like  his  father, 
small,  very  dark-skinned,  with  eyes  like  sloes,  and  ex- 
ceedingly lively  and  active. 

Tark,  himself,  he  said,  was  the  liveliest,  most  amusing 
man  he  had  ever  known,  and  the  quickest  to  do  things, 
whatever  it  was  he  was  asked  to  do,  but  he  was  not 
industrious  and  not  thrifty.  The  Tarks  were  always 
very  poor.  He  had  a  good  ear  for  music  and  was  a  singer 
of  the  old  songs — he  seemed  to  know  them  all.  One  of 
his  performances  was  with  a  pair  of  cymbals  which  he 
had  made  for  himself  out  of  some  old  metal  plates,  and 
with  these  he  used  to  play  while  dancing  about,  clashing 
them  in  time,  striking  them  on  his  head,  his  breast,  and 
legs.  In  these  dances  with  the  cymbals  he  would  whirl 
and  leap  about  in  an  astonishing  way,  standing  sometimes 
on  his  hands,  then  on  his  feet,  so  that  half  the  people 
in  the  village  used  to  gather  at  his  cottage  to  watch  his 
antics  on  a  summer  evening. 

One  afternoon  he  was  coming  down  the  village  street 
and  saw  the  blacksmith  standing  near  his  cottage  looking 
up  at  a  tall  fir  tree  which  grew  there  on  his  ground. 
"What  be  looking  at?"  cried  Tark.  The  blacksmith 
pointed  to  a  branch,  the  lowest  branch  of  all,  but  about 
forty  feet  from  the  ground,  and  said  a  chaffinch  had 
his  nest  in  it,  about  three  feet  from  the  trunk,  which  his 
little  son  had  set  his  heart  on  having.  He  had  promised 
to  get  it  down  for  him,  but  there  was  no  long  ladder  and 
he  didn't  know  how  to  get  it. 

Tark  laughed  and  said  that  for  half  a  gallon  of  beer 
he  would  go  up  legs  first  and  take  the  nest  and  bring 


DARK  PEOPLE  OF  THE  VILLAGE    259 

it  down  in  one  hand,  which  he  would  not  use  in  dimbing, 
and  would  come  down  as  he  went  up,  head  first. 

"Do  it,  then,"  said  the  blacksmith,  "and  I'll  stand  the 
half  gallon." 

Tark  ran  to  the  tree,  and  turning  over  and  standing 
on  his  hands,  clasped  the  bole  with  his  legs  and  then  with 
his  arms  and  went  up  to  the  branch,  when  taking  the 
nest  and  holding  it  in  one  hand,  he  came  down  head  first 
to  the  ground  in  safety. 

There  were  other  anecdotes  of  his  liveliness  and  agility. 
Then  followed  the  story  of  the  youngest  son,  known  as 
Liddy.  "I  don't  rightly  know,"  said  Caleb,  "what  the 
name  was  he  was  given  when  they  christened  'n;  but 
he  were  always  called  Liddy,  and  nobody  knowed  any 
other  name  for  him." 

Liddy's  grown-up  brothers  all  left  home  when  he  was 
a  small  boy:  one  enlisted  and  was  sent  to  India  and  never 
returned ;  the  other  two  went  to  America,  so  it  was  said. 
He  was  12  years  old  when  his  father  died,  and  he  had  to 
shift  for  himself ;  but  he  was  no  worse  off  on  that  account, 
as  they  had  always  been  very  poor  owing  to  poor  Tark's 
love  of  beer.  Before  long  he  got  employed  by  a  small 
working  farmer  who  kept  a  few  cows  and  a  pair  of  horses 
and  used  to  buy  wethers  to  fatten  them,  and  these  the 
boy  kept  on  the  down. 

Liddy  was  always  a  "leetel  chap,"  and  looked  no  more 
than  9  when  12,  so  that  he  could  do  no  heavy  work; 
but  he  was  a  very  willing  and  active  little  fellow,  with 
a  sweet  temper,  and  so  lively  and  full  of  fun  as  to  be 
a  favourite  with  everybody  in  the  village.  The  men 
would  laugh  at  his  pranks,  especially  when  he  came  from 
the  fields  on  the  old  plough  horse  and  urged  him  to  a 


260  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

gallop,  sitting  with  his  face  to  the  tail;  and  they  would 
say  that  he  was  like  his  father,  and  would  never  be  much 
good  except  to  make  people  laugh.  But  the  women  had 
a  tender  feeling  for  him,  because,  although  motherless 
and  very  poor,  he  yet  contrived  to  be  always  clean  and 
neat.  He  took  the  greatest  care  of  his  poor  clothes, 
washing  and  mending  them  himself.  He  also  took  an 
intense  interest  in  his  wethers,  and  almost  every  day 
he  would  go  to  Caleb,  tending  his  flock  on  the  down,  to 
sit  by  him  and  ask  a  hundred  questions  about  sheep  and 
their  management.  He  looked  on  Caleb,  as  head-shep- 
herd on  a  good-sized  farm,  as  the  most  important  and 
most  fortunate  person  he  knew,  and  was  very  proud  to 
have  him  as  guide,  philosopher,  and  friend 

Now  it  came  to  pass  that  once  in  a  small  lot  of  thirty 
or  forty  wethers  which  the  farmer  had  bought  at  a  sheep- 
fair  and  brought  home  it  was  discovered  that  one  was 
a  ewe — a  ewe  that  would  perhaps  at  some  future  day 
have  a  lamb !  Liddy  was  greatly  excited  at  the  discovery ; 
he  went  to  Caleb  and  told  him  about  it,  almost  crying  at 
the  thought  that  his  master  would  get  rid  of  it.  For 
what  use  would  it  be  to  him?  but  what  a  loss  it  would 
be!  And  at  last,  plucking  up  courage,  he  went  to  the 
farmer  and  begged  and  prayed  to  be  allowed  to  keep  the 
ewe,  and  the  farmer  laughed  at  him ;  but  he  was  a  little 
touched  at  the  boy's  feeling,  and  at  last  consented.  Then 
Liddy  was  the  happiest  boy  in  the  village,  and  whenever 
he  got  the  chance  he  would  go  out  to  Caleb  on  the  down 
to  talk  about  and  give  him  news  of  the  one  beloved  ewe. 
And  one  day,  after  about  nineteen  or  twenty  weeks, 
Caleb,  out  with  his  flock,  heard  shouts  at  a  distance, 
and,  turning  to  look,  saw  Liddy  coming  at  great  speed 


DARK  PEOPLE  OF  THE  VILLAGE    261 

towards  him,  shouting  out  some  great  news  as  he  ran; 
but  what  it  was  Caleb  could  not  make  out,  even  when 
the  little  fellow  had  come  to  him,  for  his  excitement  made 
him  incoherent.  The  ewe  had  lambed,  and  there  were 
twins — two  strong  healthy  lambs,  most  beautiful  to  see! 
Nothing  so  wonderful  had  ever  happened  in  his  life 
before !  And  now  he  sought  out  his  friend  oftener  than 
ever,  to  talk  of  his  beloved  lambs,  and  to  receive  the 
most  minute  directions  about  their  care.  Caleb,  who  is 
not  a  laughing  man,  could  not  help  laughing  a  little  when 
he  recalled  poor  Liddy's  enthusiasm.  But  that  beautiful 
shining  chapter  in  the  poor  boy's  life  could  not  last,  and 
when  the  lambs  were  grown  they  were  sold,  and  so  were 
all  the  wethers,  then  Liddy,  not  being  wanted,  had  to 
find  something  else  to  do. 

I  was  too  much  interested  in  this  story  to  let  the  sub- 
ject drop.  What  had  been  Liddy's  after-life?  Very 
uneventful:  there  was,  in  fact,  nothing  in  it,  nor  in  him, 
except  an  intense  love  for  all  things,  especially  animals; 
and  nothing  happened  to  him  until  the  end,  for  he  has 
been  dead  now  these  nine  or  ten  years.  In  his  next  place 
he  was  engaged,  first,  as  carter's  boy,  and  then  under- 
carter,  and  all  his  love  was  lavished  on  the  horses.  They 
were  more  to  him  than  sheep,  and  he  could  love  them 
without  pain,  since  they  were  not  being  prepared  for 
the  butcher  with  his  abhorred  knife.  Liddy's  love  and 
knowledge  of  horses  became  known  outside  of  his  own 
little  circle,  and  he  was  offered  and  joyfully  accepted  a 
place  in  the  stables  of  a  wealthy  young  gentleman  farmer, 
who  kept  a  large  establishment  and  was  a  hunting  man. 
From  stable-boy  he  was  eventually  promoted  to  groom. 
Occasionally  he  would  reappear  in  his  native  place.    His 


262  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

home  was  but  a  few  miles  away,  and  when  out  exercising 
a  horse  he  appeared  to  find  it  a  pleasure  to  trot  down 
the  old  street,  where  as  a  farmer's  boy  he  used  to  make 
the  village  laugh  at  his  antics.  But  he  was  very  much 
changeed  from  the  poor  boy,  who  was  often  hatless  and 
barefooted,  to  the  groom  in  his  neat,  well-fitting  black 
suit,  mounted  on  a  showy  horse. 

In  this  place  he  continued  about  thirty  years,  and  was 
married  and  had  several  children  and  was  very  happy, 
and  then  came  a  great  disaster.  His  employer  having 
met  with  heavy  losses  sold  all  his  horses  and  got  rid  of 
his  servants,  and  Liddy  had  to  go.  This  great  change, 
and  above  all  his  grief  at  the  loss  of  his  beloved  horses, 
was  more  than  he  could  endure.  He  became  melancholy 
and  spent  his  days  in  silent  brooding,  and  by  and  by, 
to  everybody's  surprise,  Liddy  fell  ill,  for  he  was  in  the 
prime  of  life  and  had  always  been  singularly  healthy. 
Then  to  astonish  people  still  more,  he  died.  What  ailed 
him — what  killed  him?  every  one  asked  of  the  doctor; 
and  his  answer  was  that  he  had  no  disease — that  nothing 
ailed  him  except  a  broken  heart;  and  that  was  what 
killed  poor  Liddy. 

In  conclusion  I  will  relate  a  little  incident  which  oc- 
curred several  months  later,  when  I  was  again  on  a  visit 
to  my  old  friend  the  shepherd.  We  were  sitting  together 
on  a  Sunday  evening,  when  his  old  wife  looked  out  and 
said,  "Lor,  here  be  Mrs.  Taylor  with  her  children  coming 
in  to  see  us."  And  Mrs.  Taylor  soon  appeared,  wheeling 
her  baby  in  a  perambulator,  with  two  little  girls  following. 
She  was  a  comely,  round,  rosy  little  woman,  with  black 
hair,  black  eyes,  and  a  singularly  sweet  expression,  and 
her  three  pretty  little  children  were  like  her.     She  stayed 


DARK  PEOPLE  OF  THE  VILLAGE    263 

half  an  hour  in  pleasant  chat,  then  went  her  way  down 
the  road  to  her  home.  Who,  I  asked,  was  Mrs.  Taylor. 
Bawcombe  said  that  in  a  way  she  was  a  native  of  their 
old  village  of  Winterbourne  Bishop:  at  least  her  father 
was.  She  had  married  a  man  who  had  taken  a  farm 
near  them,  and  after  having  known  her  as  a  young  girl 
they  had  been  glad  to  have  her  again  as  a  neighbour. 
"She's  a  daughter  of  that  Liddy  I  told  'ee  about  some 
time  ago,"  he  said. 


MIS5ELFORE  •   BOWER  CHALKE 


CHAPTER   XXI 
Some  Sheep-Dogs 

Breaking  a  sheep-dog — The  shepherd  buys  a  pup — His 
training — He  refuses  to  work — He  chases  a  swallow 
and  is  put  to  death — The  shepherd's  remorse — Bob, 
the  sheep-dog — How  he  was  bitten  by  an  adder — 
Period  of  the  dog's  receptivity— Tramp,  the  sheep- 
dog—Roaming lost  about  the  country — A  rage  of 
hunger — Sheep-killing  dogs — Dogs  running  wild — 
Anecdotes — A  Russian  sheep-dog— ?Caleb  parts  with 
Tramp 

To  Caleb  the  proper  training  of  a  dog  was  a  matter  of 
the  very  first  importance.  A  man,  he  considered,  must 
have  not  only  a  fair  amount  of  intelligence,  but  also 
experience,  and  an  even  temper,  and  a  little  sympathy 
as  well,  to  sum  up  the  animal  in  hand — its  special  apti- 
tudes, its  limitations,  its  disposition,  and  that  something 
in  addition,  which  he  called  a  "kink,"  and  would  probably 
have  described  as  its  idiosyncrasy  if  he  had  known  the 
word.     There  was  as  much  individual  difference  among 

264 


SOME    SHEEP-DOGS  265 

dogs  as  there  is  in  boys ;  but  if  the  breed  was  right,  and 
you  went  the  right  way  about  it,  you  could  hardly  fail 
to  get  a  good  servant.  If  a  dog  was  not  properly  broken, 
if  its  trainer  had  not  made  the  most  of  it,  he  was  not 
a  "good  shepherd":  he  lacked  the  intelligence — "under- 
standing" was  his  word — or  else  the  knowledge  or  pa- 
tience or  persistence  to  do  his  part.  It  was,  however, 
possible  for  the  best  shepherd  to  make  mistakes,  and  one 
of  the  greatest  to  be  made,  which  was  not  uncommon, 
was  to  embark  on  the  long  and  laborious  business  of 
training  an  animal  of  mixed  blood — a  sheep-dog  with 
a  taint  of  terrier,  retriever,  or  some  other  unsuitable 
breed  in  him.  In  discussing  this  subject  with  other  shep- 
herds I  generally  found  that  those  who  were  in  perfect 
agreement  with  Caleb  on  this  point  were  men  who  were 
somewhat  like  him  in  character,  and  who  regarded  their 
work  with  the  sheep  as  so  important  that  It  must  be  done 
thoroughly  in  every  detail  and  in  the  best  way.  One  of 
the  best  shepherds  I  know,  who  is  60  years  old  and  has 
been  on  the  same  downland  sheep-farm  all  his  life,  as- 
sures me  that  he  has  never  had  and  never  would  have  a 
dog  which  was  trained  by  another.  But  the  shepherd  of 
the  ordinary  kind  says  that  he  doesn't  care  much  about 
the  animal's  parentage,  or  that  he  doesn't  trouble  to  in- 
quire into  its  pedigree:  he  breaks  the  animal,  and  finds 
that  he  does  pretty  well,  even  when  he  has  some  strange 
blood  In  him ;  finally,  that  all  dogs  have  faults  and  you 
must  put  up  with  them.  Caleb  would  say  of  such  a  man 
that  he  was  not  a  "good  shepherd."  One  of  his  saddest 
memories  was  of  a  dog  which  he  bought  and  broke  with- 
out having  made  the  necessary  Inquiries  about  its  par- 
entage. 


266  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

It  happened  that  a  shepherd  of  the  village,  who  had 
taken  a  place  at  a  distant  farm,  was  anxious  to  dispose 
of  a  litter  of  pups  before  leaving,  and  he  asked  Caleb 
to  have  one.  Caleb  refused.  "My  dog's  old,  I  know," 
he  said,  "but  I  don't  want  a  pup  now  and  I  won't  have  'n." 

A  day  or  two  later  the  man  came  back  and  said  he 
had  kept  one  of  the  best  of  the  five  for  him — he  had 
got  rid  of  all  the  others.  "You  can't  do  better,"  he  per- 
sisted. "No,"  said  Caleb,  "what  I  said  I  say  again.  I 
won't  have  'n,  I've  no  money  to  buy  a  dog." 

"Never  mind  about  money,"  said  the  other.  "You've 
got  a  bell  I  like  the  sound  of;  give  he  to  me  and  take  the 
pup."  And  so  the  exchange  was  made,  a  copper  bell  for 
a  nice  black  pup  with  a  white  collar;  its  mother,  Baw- 
combe  knew,  was  a  good  sheep-dog,  but  about  the  other 
parent  he  made  no  inquiries. 

On  receiving  the  pup  he  was  told  that  its  name  was 
Tory,  and  he  did  not  change  it.  It  was  always  difficult, 
he  explained,  to  find  a  name  for  a  dog — a  name,  that 
is  to  say,  which  anyone  would  say  was  a  proper  name 
for  a  dog  and  not  a  foolish  name.  One  could  think  of  a 
good  many  proper  names — Jack  and  Watch,  and  so  on 
— but  in  each  case  one  would  remember  some  dog  which 
had  been  called  by  that  name,  and  it  seemed  to  belong 
to  that  particular  well-remembered  dog  and  to  no  other, 
and  so  in  the  end  because  of  this  difficulty  he  allowed  the 
name  to  remain. 

The  dog  had  not  cost  him  much  to  buy,  but  as  It  was 
only  a  few  weeks  old  he  had  to  keep  it  at  his  own  cost 
for  fully  six  months  before  beginning  the  business  of 
breaking  it,  which  would  take  from  three  to  six  months 
longer.    A  dog  cannot  be  put  to  work  before  he  is  quite 


SOME    SHEEP-DOGS  267 

half  a  year  old  unless  he  is  exceptionally  vigorous.  Sheep 
are  timid  creatures,  but  not  unintelligent,  and  they  can 
distinguish  between  the  seasoned  old  sheep-dog,  whose 
furious  onset  and  bite  they  fear,  and  the  raw  young  re- 
cruit as  easily  as  the  rook  can  distinguish  between  the 
man  with  a  gun  and  the  man  of  straw  with  a  broomstick 
under  his  arm.  They  will  turn  upon  and  attack  the 
young  dog,  and  chase  him  away  with  his  tail  between 
his  legs.  He  will  also  work  too  furiously  for  his  strength 
and  then  collapse,  with  the  result  that  he  will  make  a 
cowardly  sheep-dog,  or,  as  the  shepherds  say,  "broken- 
hearted." 

Another  thing.  He  must  be  made  to  work  at  first 
with  an  old  sheep-dog,  for  though  he  has  the  impulse  to 
fly  about  and  do  something,  he  does  not  know  what  to 
do  and  does  not  understand  his  master's  gestures  and 
commands.  He  must  have  an  object-lesson,  he  must  see 
the  motion  and  hear  the  word  and  mark  how  the  old 
dog  flies  to  this  or  that  point  and  what  he  does.  The 
word  of  command  or  the  gesture  thus  becomes  associated 
in  his  mind  with  a  particular  action  on  his  part.  But  he 
must  not  be  given  too  many  object-lessons  or  he  will 
lose  more  than  he  will  gain — a  something  which  might 
almost  be  described  as  a  sense  of  individual  responsibility. 
That  is  to  say,  responsi'bility  to  the  human  master  who 
delegates  his  power  to  him.  Instead  of  taking  his  power 
directly  from  the  man  he  takes  it  from  the  dog,  and  this 
becomes  a  fixed  habit  so  quickly  that  many  shepherds 
say  that  if  you  give  more  than  from  three  to  six  lessons 
of  this  kind  to  a  young  dog  you  will  spoil  him.  He  will 
need  the  mastership  of  the  other  dog,  and  will  thereafter 
always  be  at  a  loss  and  work  in  an  uncertain  way. 


268 


A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 


A  timid  or  unwilling  young  dog  is  often  coupled  with 
the  old  dog  two  or  three  times,  but  this  method  has  its 
dangers  too,  as  it  may  be  too  much  for  the  young  dog's 
strength,  and  give  him  that  "broken  heart"  from  which 
he  will  never  recover ;  he  will  never  be  a  good  sheep-dog. 

To  return  to  Tory.     In  due  time  he  was  trained  and 


IN  THE  FOLD. 


proved  quick  to  learn  and  willing  to  work,  so  that  before 
long  he  began  to  be  useful  and  was  much  warded  with 
the  sheep,  as  the  old  dog  was  rapidly  growing  stiffer  on 
his  legs  and  harder  of  hearing. 

One  day  the  lambs  were  put  into  a  field  which  was 
half  clover  and  half  rape,  and  it  was  necessary  to  keep 
them  on  the  clover.  This  the  young  dog  could  not  or 
would  not  understand;  again  and  again  he  allowed  the 


SOME    SHEEP-DOGS  269 

lambs  to  go  to  the  rape,  which  so  angered  Caleb  that 
he  threw  his  crook  at  him.  Tory  turned  and  gave  him 
a  look,  then  came  very  quietly  and  placed  himself  behind 
his  master.  From  that  moment  he  refused  to  obey,  and 
Bawcombe,  after  exhausting  all  his  arts  of  persuasion, 
gave  it  up  and  did  as  well  as  he  could  without  his  assist- 
ance. 

That  evening  after  folding-time  he  by  chance  met  a 
shepherd  he  was  well  acquainted  with  and  told  him  of 
the  trouble  he  was  in  over  Tory. 

"You  tie  him  up  for  a  week,"  said  the  shepherd,  "and 
treat  him  well  till  he  forgets  all  about  it,  and  he'll  be  the 
same  as  he  was  before  you  offended  him.  He's  just 
like  old  Tom — he's  got  his  father's  temper." 

"What's  that  you  say?"  exclaimed  Bawcombe.  "Be 
you  saying  that  Tory's  old  Tom's  son?  I'd  never  have 
taken  him  if  I'd  known  that.  Tom's  not  pure-bred — 
he's  got  retriever's  blood." 

"Well,  'tis  known,  and  I  could  have  told  'ee,  if  thee'd 
asked  me,"  said  the  shepherd.  "But  you  do  just  as  I 
tell  'ee,  and  it'll  be  all  right  with  the  dog." 

Tory  was  accordingly  tied  up  at  home  and  treated 
well  and  spoken  kindly  to  and  patted  on  the  head,  so 
that  there  would  be  no  unpleasantness  between  master 
and  servant,  and  if  he  was  an  intelligent  animal  he  would 
know  that  the  crook  had  been  thrown  not  to  hurt  but 
merely  to  express  disapproval  of  his  naughtiness. 

Then  came  a  busy  day  for  the  shepherd,  w^ien  the 
lambs  were  trimmed  before  being  taken  to  the  Wilton 
sheep-fair.  There  was  Bawcombe,  his  boy,  the  decrepit 
old  dog,  and  Tory  to  do  the  work,  but  when  the  time 
came  to  start  Tory  refused  to  do  anything. 


270  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

When  sent  to  turn  the  lambs  he  walked  off  to  a  distance 
of  about  twenty  yards,  sat  down  and  looked  at  his  master. 
Caleb  hoped  he  would  come  round  presently  when  he 
saw  them  all  at  work,  and  so  they  did  the  best  they  could 
without  him  for  a  time;  but  the  old  dog  was  stiffer  and 
harder  of  hearing  than  ever,  and  as  they  could  not  get 
on  properly  Caleb  went  at  intervals  to  Tory  and  tried 
to  coax  him  to  give  them  his  help;  and  every  time  he 
was  spoken  to  he  would  get  up  and  come  to  his  master, 
then  when  ordered  to  do  something  he  would  walk  off 
to  the  spot  where  he  had  chosen  to  be  and  calmly  sit 
down  once  more  and  look  at  them.  Caleb  was  becoming 
more  and  more  incensed,  but  he  would  not  show  it  to 
the  dog ;  he  still  hoped  against  hope ;  and  then  a  curious 
thing  happened,  A  swallow  came  skimming  along  close 
to  the  earth  and  passed  within  a  yard  of  Tory,  when  up 
jumped  the  dog  and  gave  chase,  darting  across  the  field 
with  such  speed  that  he  kept  very  near  the  bird  until  it 
rose  and  passed  over  the  hedge  at  the  further  side.  The 
joyous  chase  over  Tory  came  back  to  his  old  place,  and 
sitting  on  his  haunches  began  watching  them  again  strug- 
gling with  the  lambs.  It  was  more  than  the  shepherd 
could  stand;  he  went  deliberately  up  to  the  dog,  and 
taking  him  by  the  straw  collar  still  on  his  neck  drew 
him  quietly  away  to  the  hedge-side  and  bound  him  to 
a  bush,  then  getting  a  stout  stick  he  came  back  and 
gave  him  one  blow  on  the  head.  So  great  was  the  blow 
that  the  dog  made  not  the  slightest  sound:  he  fell;  his 
body  quivered  a  moment  and  his  legs  stretched  out — he 
was  quite  dead.  Bawcombe  then  plucked  an  armful  of 
bracken  and  threw  it  over  his  body  to  cover  it,  and  going 
back  to  the  hurdles  sent  the  boy  home,  then  spreading 


SOME    SHEEP-DOGS  271 

his  cloak  at  the  hedge-side,  laid  himself  down  on  it  and 
covered  his  head. 

An  hour  later  the  farmer  appeared  on  the  scene. 
"What  are  you  doing  here,  shepherd?"  he  demanded  in 
surprise.     "Not  trimming  the  lambs!" 

Bawcombe,  raising  himself  on  his  elbow,  replied  that 
he  was  not  trimming  the  lambs — that  he  would  trim  no 
lambs  that  day. 

"Oh,  but  we  must  get  on  with  the  trimming!"  cried 
the  farmer, 

Bawcombe  returned  that  the  dog  had  put  him  out,  and 
now  the  dog  was  dead — he  had  killed  him  in  his  anger, 
and  he  would  trim  no  more  lambs  that  day.  He  had 
said  it  and  would  keep  to  what  he  had  said. 

Then  the  farmer  got  angry  and  said  that  the  dog  had 
a  very  good  nose  and  would  have  been  useful  to  him  to 
take  rabbits. 

"Master,"  said  the  other,  "I  got  he  when  he  were  a 
pup  and  broke  'n  to  help  me  with  the  sheep  and  not  to 
catch  rabbits;  and  now  I've  killed  'n  and  he'll  catch  no 
rabbits." 

The  farmer  knew  his  man,  and  swallowing  his  anger 
walked  off  without  another  word. 

Later  on  in  the  day  he  was  severely  blamed  by  a  shep- 
herd friend  who  said  that  he  could  easily  have  sold  the 
dog  to  one  of  the  drovers,  who  were  always  anxious  to 
pick  up  a  dog  in  their  village,  and  he  would  have  had  the 
money  to  repay  him  for  his  trouble ;  to  which  Bawcombe 
returned,  "If  he  wouldn't  work  for  I  that  broke  'n  he 
wouldn't  work  for  another.  But  I'lH  never  again  break 
a  dog  that  isn't  pure-bred." 

But  though  he  justified  himself  he  had  suffered  re- 


272  'A   SHEPHERD'S   LIFE 

morse  for  what  he  had  done;  not  only  at  the  time,  when 
he  covered  the  dead  dog  up  with  bracken  and  refused 
to  work  any  more  that  day,  but  the  feehng  had  persisted 
all  his  life,  and  he  could  not  relate  the  incident  without 
showing  it  very  plainly.  He  bitterly  blamed  himself  for 
having  taken  the  pup  and  for  spending  long  months  in 
training  him  without  having  first  taken  pains  to  inform 
himself  that  there  was  no  bad  blood  in  him.  And  al- 
though the  dog  was  perhaps  unfit  to  live  he  had  finally 
killed  him  in  anger.  If  it  had  not  been  for  that  sudden 
impetuous  chase  after  a  swallow  he  would  have  borne 
with  him  and  considered  afterwards  what  was  to  be 
done;  but  that  dash  after  the  bird  was  more  than  he 
could  stand;  for  it  looked  as  if  Tory  had  done  it  pur- 
posely, in  something  of  a  mocking  spirit,  to  exhibit  his 
wonderful  activity  and  speed  to  his  master,  sweating 
there  at  his  task,  and  make  him  see  what  he  had  lost  in 
offending  him. 

The  shepherd  gave  another  instance  of  a  mistake  he 
once  made  which  caused  him  a  good  deal  of  pain.  It 
was  the  case  of  a  dog  named  Bob  which  he  owned  when 
a  young  man.  He  was  an  exceptionally  small  dog,  but 
his  quick  intelligence  made  up  for  lack  of  strength,  and 
he  was  of  a  very  lively  disposition,  so  that  he  was 
a  good  companion  to  a  shepherd  as  well  as  a  good 
servant. 

One  summer  day  at  noon  Caleb  was  going  to  his  flock 
in  the  fields,  walking  by  a  hedge,  when  he  noticed  Bob 
sniffing  suspiciously  at  the  roots  of  an  old  holly-tree 
growing  on  the  bank.  It  was  a  low  but  very  old  tree 
with  a  thick  trunk,  rotten  and  hollow  inside,  the  cavity 
being  hidden  with  the  brushwood  growing  up  from  the 


SOME    SHEEP-DOGS  273 

roots.  As  he  game  abreast  of  the  tree,  Bob  looked  up 
and  emitted  a  low  whine,  that  sound  which  says  so  much 
when  used  by  a  dog  to  his  master  and  which  his  master 
does  not  always  rightly  understand.  At  all  events  he 
did  not  do  so  in  this  case.  It  was  August  and  the  shoot- 
ing had  begun,  and  Caleb  jumped  to  the  conclusion  that 
a  wounded  bird  had  crept  into  the  hollow  tree  to  hide, 
and  so  to  Bob's  whine,  which  expressed  fear  and  asked 
what  he  was  to  do,  the  shepherd  answered,  "Get  him." 
Bob  dashed  in,  but  quickly  recoiled,  whining  in  a  piteous 
way,  and  began  rubbing  his  face  on  his  legs.  Bawcombe 
in  alarm  jumped  down  and  peered  into  the  hollow  trunk 
and  heard  a  slight  rustling  of  dead  leaves,  but  saw 
nothing.  His  dog  had  been  bitten  by  an  adder,  and  he 
at  once  returned  to  the  village,  bitterly  blaming  himself 
for  the  mistake  he  had  made  and  greatly  fearing  that 
he  would  lose  his  dog.  Arrived  at  the  village  his  mother 
at  once  went  off  to  the  down  to  inform  Isaac  of  the 
trouble  and  ask  him  what  they  were  to  do.  Caleb  had 
to  wait  some  time,  as  none  of  the  villagers  who  gathered 
round  could  suggest  a  remedy,  and  in  the  meantime  Bob 
continued  rubbing  his  cheek  against  his  foreleg,  twitching 
and  whining  with  pain;  and  before  long  the  face  and 
head  began  to  swell  on  one  side,  the  swelling  extending 
to  the  nape  and  downwards  to  the  throat.  Presently 
Isaac  himself,  full  of  concern,  arrived  on  the  scene,  hav- 
ing left  his  wife  in  charge  of  the  flock,  and  at  the  same 
time  a  man  from  a  neighbouring  village  came  riding  by 
and  joined  the  group.  The  horseman  got  off  and  assisted 
Caleb  in  holding  the  dog  while  Isaac  made  a  number  of 
incisions  with  his  knife  in  the  swollen  place  and  let  out 
some  blood,  after  which  they  rubbed  the  wounds  and  all 


274  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

the  swollen  part  with  an  oil  used  for  the  purpose.  The 
composition  of  this  oil  was  a  secret:  it  was  made  by  a 
man  in  one  of  the  downland  villages  and  sold  at  eighteen- 
pence  a  small  bottle;  Isaac  was  a  believer  in  its  efficacy, 
and  always  kept  a  bottle  hidden  away  somewhere  in  his 
cottage. 

Bob  recovered  in  a  few  days,  but  the  hair  fell  out  from 
all  the  part  which  had  been  swollen,  and  he  was  a  curious- 
looking  dog  with  half  his  face  and  head  naked  until  he 
got  his  fresh  coat,  when  it  grew  again.  He  was  as  good 
and  active  a  dog  as  ever,  and  lived  to  a  good  old  age, 
but  one  result  of  the  poison  he  never  got  over:  his  bark 
had  changed  from  a  sharp  ringing  sound  to  a  low  and 
hoarse  one.  "He  always  barked,"  said  the  shepherd, 
"like  a  dog  with  a  sore  throat." 

To  go  back  to  the  subject  of  training  a  dog.  Once 
you  make  a  beginning  it  must  be  carried  through  to  a 
finish.  You  take  him  at  the  age  of  6  months  and  the 
education  must  be  fairly  complete  when  he  is  a  year  old. 
He  is  then  lively,  impressionable,  exceedingly  adaptive; 
his  intelligence  at  that  period  is  most  like  man's;  but  it 
would  be  a  mistake  to  think  that  it  will  continue  so — 
that  to  what  he  learns  now  in  this  wonderful  half-year, 
other  things  may  be  added  by  and  by  as  opportunity 
arises.  At  a  year  he  has  practically  got  to  the  end  of 
his  capacity  to  learn.  He  has  lost  his  human-like  recep- 
tivity, but  what  he  has  been  taught  will  remain  with  him 
for  the  rest  of  his  life.  We  can  hardly  say  that  he  re- 
members it ;  it  is  more  like  what  is  called  "inherited  mem- 
ory" or  "lapsed  intelligence." 

All  this  is  very  important  to  a  shepherd,  and  explains 
the  reason  an  old  head-shepherd  had  for  saying  to  me 


SOME    SHEEP-DOGS  275 

that  he  had  never  had  and  never  would  have  a  dog  he 
had  not  trained  himself.  No  two  men  follow  precisely 
the  same  method  in  training,  and  a  dog  transferred  from 
his  trainer  to  another  man  is  always  a  little  at  a  loss; 
method,  voice,  gestures,  personality,  are  all  different; 
his  new  master  must  study  him  and  in  a  way  adapt  him- 
self to  the  dog.  The  dog  is  still  more  at  a  loss  when 
transferred  from  one  kind  of  country  to  another  where 
the  sheep  are  worked  in  a  different  manner,  and  one 
instance  Caleb  gave  me  of  this  is  worth  relating.  It 
was,  I  thought,  one  of  his  best  dog  stories. 

His  dogs  as  a  rule  were  bought  as  pups;  occasionally 
he  had  had  to  get  a  dog  already  trained,  a  painful  neces- 
sity to  a  shepherd,  seeing  that  the  pound  or  two  it  costs 
— the  price  of  an  ordinary  animal — is  a  big  sum  of 
money  to  him.  And  once  in  his  life  he  got  an  old  trained 
sheep-dog  for  nothing.  He  was  young  then,  and  acting 
as  under-shepherd  in  his  native  village,  when  the  report 
came  one  day  that  a  great  circus  and  menagerie  which 
had  been  exhibiting  in  the  west  was  on  its  way  to  Salis- 
bury, and  would  be  coming  past  the  village  about  six 
o'clock  on  the  following  morning.  The  turnpike  was 
a  little  over  a  mile  away,  and  thither  Caleb  went  with 
half  a  dozen  other  young  men  of  the  village  at  about 
five  o'clock  to  see  the  show  pass,  and  sat  on  a  gate  beside 
a  wood  to  wait  its  coming.  In  due  time  the  long  proces- 
sion of  horses  and  mounted  men  and  women,  and  gor- 
geous vans  containing  lions  and  tigers  and  other  strange 
beasts,  came  by,  affording  them  great  admiration  and 
delight.  When  it  had  gone  on  and  the  last  van  had 
disappeared  at  the  turning  of  the  road,  they  got  down 
from  the  gate  and  were  about  to  set  out  on  their  way 


276  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

back  when  a  big,  shaggy  sheep-dog  came  out  of  the 
wood  and  running  to  the  road  began  looking  up  and 
down  in  a  bewildered  way.  They  had  no  doubt  that 
he  belonged  to  the  circus  and  had  turned  aside  to  hunt 
a  rabbit  in  the  wood;  then,  thinking  the  animal  would 
understand  them,  they  shouted  to  it  and  waved  their 
arms  in  the  direction  the  procession  had  gone.  But  the 
dog  became  frightened,  and  turning  fled  back  into  cover, 
and  they  saw  no  more  of  it. 

Two  or  three  days  later  it  was  rumoured  that  a  strange 
dog  had  been  seen  in  the  neighbourhood  of  Winterbourne 
Bishop,  in  the  fields;  and  women  and  children  going  to 
or  coming  from  outlying  cottages  and  farms  had  encoun- 
tered it,  sometimes  appearing  suddenly  out  of  the  furze- 
bushes  and  staring  wildly  at  them;  or  they  would  meet 
him  in  some  deep  lane  between  hedges,  and  after  standing 
still  a  moment  eyeing  them  he  would  turn  and  fly  in 
terror  from  their  strange  faces.  Shepherds  began  to 
be  alarmed  for  the  safety  of  their  sheep,  and  there  was 
a  good  deal  of  excitement  and  talk  about  the  strange 
dog.  Two  or  three  days  later  Caleb  encountered  it.  He 
was  returning  from  his  flock  at  the  side  of  a  large  grass 
field  where  four  or  five  women  were  occupied  cutting  the 
thistles,  and  the  dog,  which  he  immediately  recognized 
as  the  one  he  had  seen  at  the  turnpike,  was  following 
one  of  the  women  about.  She  was  greatly  alarmed  and 
called  to  him,  "Come  here,  Caleb,  for  goodness'  sake, 
and  drive  this  big  dog  away!  He  do  look  so  desprit, 
I'm  afeared  of  he." 

"Don't  you  be  feared,"  he  shouted  back.  "He  won't 
hurt  'ee;  he's  starving — don't  you  see  his  bones  sticking 
out?    He's  asking  to  be  fed."    Then  going  a  little  nearer 


SOME    SHEEP-DOGS  277 

he  called  to  her  to  take  hold  of  the  dog  by  the  neck  and 
keep  him  while  he  approached.  He  feared  that  the  dog 
on  seeing  him  coming  would  rush  away.  After  a  little 
while  she  called  the  dog,  but  when  he  went  to  her  she 
shrank  away  from  him  and  called  out,  "No,  I  daren't 
touch  he — he'll  tear  my  hand  off.  I  never  see'd  such  a 
desprit-looking  beast !" 

"  'Tis  hunger,"  repeated  Caleb,  and  then  very  slowly 
and  cautiously  he  approached,  the  dog  all  the  time  eyeing 
him  suspiciously,  ready  to  rush  away  on  the  slightest 
alarm.  And  while  approaching  him  he  began  to  speak 
gently  to  him,  then  coming  to  a  stand  stooped  and  patting 
his  legs  called  the  dog  to  him.  Presently  he  came,  sinking 
his  body  lower  as  he  advanced  and  at  last  crawling,  and 
when  he  arrived  at  the  shepherd's  feet  he  turned  himself 
over  on  his  back — that  eloquent  action  which  a  dog  uses 
when  humbling  himself  before  and  imploring  mercy  from 
one  mightier  than  himself,  man  or  dog. 

Caleb  stooped,  and  after  patting  the  dog  gripped  him 
firmly  by  the  neck  and  pulled  him  up,  while  with  his 
free  hand  he  undid  his  leather  belt  to  turn  it  into  a  dog's 
collar  and  leash;  then,  the  end  of  the  strap  in  his  hand, 
he  said  "Come,"  and  started  home  with  the  dog  at  his 
side.  Arrived  at  the  cottage  he  got  a  bucket  and  mixed 
as  much  meal  as  would  make  two  good  feeds,  the  dog 
all  the  time  watching  him  with  his  muscles  twitching  and 
the  water  running  from  his  mouth.  The  meal  well  mixed 
he  emptied  it  out  on  the  turf,  and  what  followed,  he  said, 
was  an  amazing  thing  to  see:  the  dog  hurled  himself 
down  on  the  food  and  started  devouring  it  as  if  the  mass 
of  meal  had  been  some  living  savage  creature  he  had 
captured  and  was  f  renziedly  tearing  to  pieces.    He  turned 


278  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

round  and  round,  floundering  on  the  earth,  uttering 
strange  noises  like  half-choking  growls  and  screams  while 
gobbling  down  the  meal;  then  when  he  had  devoured  it 
all  he  began  tearing  up  and  swallowing  the  turf  for  the 
sake  of  the  little  wet  meal  still  adhering  to  it. 

Such  rage  of  hunger  Caleb  had  never  seen,  and  It  was 
painful  to  him  to  think  of  what  the  dog  had  endured 
during  those  days  when  it  had  been  roaming  foodless 
about  the  neighbourhood.  Yet  it  was  among  sheep  all 
the  time — scores  of  flocks  left  folded  by  night  at  a  dis- 
tance from  the  village;  one  would  have  imagined  that 
the  old  wolf  and  wild-dog  instinct  would  have  come  to 
life  in  such  circumstances,  but  the  instinct  was  to  all 
appearance  dead. 

My  belief  is  that  the  pure-bred  sheep-dog  is  indeed  the 
last  dog  to  revert  to  a  state  of  nature;  and  that  when 
sheep-killing  by  night  is  traced  to  a  sheep-dog,  the  animal 
has  a  bad  strain  in  him,  of  retriever,  or  cur,  or  "rabbit- 
dog,"  as  the  shepherds  call  all  terriers.  When  I  was  a 
boy  on  the  pampas  sheep  -  killing  dogs  were  common 
enough,  and  they  were  always  curs,  or  the  common  dog 
of  the  country,  a  smooth-haired  animal  about  the  size 
of  a  coach-dog,  red,  or  black,  or  white.  I  recall  one 
instance  of  sheep-killing  being  traced  to  our  own  dogs 
— ^we  had  about  six  or  eight  just  then.  A  native  neigh- 
bour, a  few  miles  away,  caught  them  at  it  one  morning ; 
they  escaped  him  in  spite  of  his  good  horse,  with  lasso 
and  bolas  also,  but  his  sharp  eyes  saw  them  pretty  well 
in  the  dim  light,  and  by  and  by  he  identified  them,  and 
my  father  had  to  pay  him  for  about  thirty  slain  and 
badly  injured  sheep;  after  which  a  gallows  was  erected 
and  our  guardians  ignominiously  hanged.    Here  we  shoot 


SOME    SHEEP-DOGS  279 

dogs;  in  some  countries  the  old  custom  of  hanging  them, 
which  is  perhaps  less  painful,  is  still  followed. 

It  was  common,  too,  in  those  days  on  the  pampas, 
especially  in  the  outlying  districts,  for  dogs  to  take  to 
a  wholly  wild  life.  I  remember  once,  when  staying  with 
a  native  friend  among  the  Sierras,  near  Cape  Corrientos, 
that  he  owned  a  fine  handsome  dog,  so  good-tempered 
and  intelligent  that  I  was  very  much  attached  to  him. 
He  was,  my  friend  said,  a  wild  dog;  he  had  found  a 
bitch  with  a  litter  of  pups  in  a  huge  burrow  she  had 
made  for  herself  in  the  ground,  and  he  had  killed  them 
all  except  this  one,  which  he  took  home  and  reared  as 
an  experiment. 

In  England  it  is  perhaps  now  impossible  for  a  dog 
to  run  wholly  wild,  or  to  exist  in  that  state  for  any  length 
of  time.  I  find  one  case  reported  in  the  "Salisbury  Jour- 
nal" of  31  May,  1779.  It  interested  me  very  much 
because  I  had  long  been  familiar  with  the  place  in  which 
the  escaped  dog  was  found.  This  was  in  Pamba  Wood, 
near  Silchester,  and  is  sometimes  called  Silchester  Forest 
—the  "Proud  Pamba"  of  Drayton's  "Polyolbion." 

A  poor  woman  while  gathering  sticks  in  the  wood 
came  upon  the  remains  of  a  dead  man — the  skull  and  a 
number  of  bones.  She  gave  notice  of  it,  and  a  crowd  of 
villagers  went  to  the  spot,  and  found  there  a  foxhound 
bitch  which  had  been  missing  from  the  kennels  for  about 
two  months.  She  had  a  litter  of  eight  pups  about  two 
months  old  in  a  pit  about  six  feet  deep  which  she  had 
made  herself,  and  it  was  plain  that  the  dogs  had  de- 
voured the  flesh  of  the  man  after  he  had  met  his  death 
close  to  the  pit.  Nothing  except  the  flesh  on  his  feet 
and  ankles  remained  uneaten:  they  were  cased  in  thick 


280  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

high  boots,  so  hard  that  the  dogs  had  been  unable  to 
tear  them  to  pieces.  The  dead  man  was  identified  or 
taken  to  be  a  thrasher  from  the  neighbouring  village  of 
Aldermaston  who  had  been  missing  about  a  fortnight, 
and  it  was  supposed  that  he  had  gone  into  the  wood  to 
cut  a  flail  and  had  been  seized  with  sudden  illness  and 
died  at  that  spot. 

The  pups  were  very  wild  and  savage,  and  I  should 
rather  think  that  the  man  had  found  the  bitch  with  her 
young  and  had  attempted  to  take  them  single-handed 
for  the  sake  of  the  reward,  and  had  been  attacked,  pulled 
down,  and  killed,  after  which  they  began  to  feed  on 
the  body.  One  wonders  how  this  dog  had  managed  to 
support  herself  and  her  eight  pups  in  the  forest  during 
the  six  weeks  before  the  poor  thrasher  came  in  their 
way  to  provide  them  with  food. 

In  this  same  journal  I  find  a  case  of  a  dog  devouring 
its  own  master.  The  man  was  a  rat-catcher  living  in 
a  cottage  at  Fovant,  a  small  village  in  the  valley  of  the 
Nadder.  Going  home  drunk  one  night  from  the  public- 
house  he  fell  in  the  road,  and  remained  lying  there  in 
a  drunken  sleep,  and  towards  morning  a  wagon  passed 
over  him,  the  wheel  crushing  his  head.  The  wagoner 
reported  the  case,  and  the  constable  with  men  to  help 
him  went  and  removed  the  body  to  the  man's  cottage, 
and  after  depositing  it  on  the  floor  of  the  kitchen  or 
living  room  went  their  way,  closing  the  door  after  them. 
Later  in  the  day  they  returned,  and  going  in  found  the 
dog  devouring  the  man's  flesh. 

We  experience  an  intense  disgust  at  a  case  like  this; 
but  we  have  the  same  feeling  when  we  hear  of  man 
eating  dog ;  in  both  cases,  owing  to  the  long  and  intimate 


SOME    SHEEP-DOGS  281 

association  between  man  and  dog,  we  are  affected  as 
by  a  kind  of  cannibalism. 

To  go  back  to  our  story.  From  that  time  the  stray 
dog  was  Caleb's  obedient  and  affectionate  slave,  always 
watching  his  face  and  every  gesture,  and  starting  up  at 
his  slightest  word  in  readiness  to  do  his  bidding.  When 
put  with  the  flock  he  turned  out  to  be  a  useful  sheep- 
dog, but  unfortunately  he  had  not  been  trained  on  the 
Wiltshire  Downs.  It  was  plain  to  see  that  the  work 
was  strange  to  him,  that  he  had  been  taught  in  a  different 
school,  and  could  never  forget  the  old  and  acquire  a  new 
method.  But  as  to  what  conditions  he  had  been  reared 
in  or  in  what  district  or  country  no  one  could  guess. 
Every  one  said  that  he  was  a  sheep-dog,  but  unlike  any 
sheep-dog  they  had  ever  seen ;  he  was  not  Wiltshire,  nor 
Welsh,  nor  Sussex,  nor  Scotch,  and  they  could  say  no 
more.  Whenever  a  shepherd  saw  him  for  the  first  time 
his  attention  was  immediately  attracted,  and  he  would 
stop  to  speak  with  Caleb.  "What  sort  of  a  dog  do  you 
call  that?"  he  would  say.  "I  never  see'd  one  just  like 
'n  before." 

At  length  one  day  when  passing  by  a  new  building 
which  some  workmen  had  been  brought  from  a  distance 
to  erect  in  the  village,  one  of  the  men  hailed  Caleb  and 
said,  "Where  did  you  get  that  dog,  mate?" 

"Why  do  you  ask  me  that?"  said  the  shepherd. 

"Because  I  know  where  he  come  from:  he's  a  Rooshian, 
that's  what  he  is.  I've  see'd  many  just  like  him  in  the 
Crimea  when  I  was  there.  But  I  never  see'd  one  before 
in  England." 

Caleb  was  quite  ready  to  believe  it,  and  was  a  little 
proud  at  having  a  sheep-dog  from  that  distant  country. 


282  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

He  said  that  it  also  put  something  new  into  his  mind. 
He  didn't  know  nothing  about  Russia  before  that,  though 
he  had  been  hearing  so  much  of  our  great  war  there 
and  of  all  the  people  that  had  been  killed.  Now  he 
realized  that  Russia  was  a  great  country,  a  land  where 
there  were  hills  and  valleys  and  villages,  where  there  were 
flocks  and  herds,  and  shepherds  and  sheep-dogs  just  as 
in  the  Wiltshire  Downs.  He  only  wished  that  Tramp 
— that  was  the  name  he  had  given  his  dog — could  have 
told  him  his  history. 

Tramp,  in  spite  of  being  strange  to  the  downs  and  the 
downland  sheep-dog's  work,  would  probably  have  been 
kept  by  Caleb  to  the  end  but  for  his  ineradicable  passion 
for  hunting  rabbits.  He  did  not  neglect  his  duty,  but 
he  would  slip  away  too  often,  and  eventually  when  a 
man  who  wanted  a  good  dog  for  rabbits  one  day  offered 
Caleb  fifteen  shillings  for  Tramp  he  sold  him,  and  as  he 
was  taken  away  to  a  distance  by  his  new  master,  he  never 
saw  him  again. 


SHUEWTON 


CHAPTER   XXII 
The  Shepherd  as  Naturalist 

'General  remarks — Great  Ridge  Wood — Encounter  with 
a  roe-deer  —  A  hare  on  a  stump  —  A  gamekeeper's 
memory — Talk  with  a  gipsy — A  strange  story  of  a 
hedgehog  —  A  gipsy  on  memory  —  The  shepherd's 
feeling  for  animals — Anecdote  of  a  shrew — Anecdote 
of  an  owl — Reflex  effect  of  the  gamekeeper's  calling 
— We  remember  best  what  we  see  emotionally 

It  will  appear  to  some  of  my  readers  that  the  interesting 
facts  about  wild  life,  or  rather  about  animal  life,  wild 
and  domestic,  gathered  in  my  talks  with  the  old  shepherd, 
do  not  amount  to  much.  If  this  is  all  there  is  to  show 
after  a  long  life  spent  out  of  doors,  or  all  that  is  best 
worth  preserving,  it  is  a  somewhat  scanty  harvest,  they 
will  say.  To  me  it  appears  a  somewhat  abundant  one. 
We  field  naturalists,  who  set  down  what  we  see  and  hear 
in  a  notebook  lest  we  forget  it,  do  not  always  bear  in 
mind  that  it  is  exceedingly  rare  for  those  who  are  not 
naturalists,  whose  senses  and  minds  are  occupied  with 

283 


284  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

other  things,  to  come  upon  a  new  and  interesting  fact 
in  animal  hfe,  or  that  these  chance  observations  are 
quickly  forgotten.  This  was  strongly  borne  in  upon 
me  lately  while  staying  in  the  village  of  Hindon  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  the  Great  Ridge  Wood,  which  clothes 
the  summit  of  the  long  high  down  overlooking  the  vale 
of  the  Wylye.  It  is  an  immense  wood,  mostly  of  scrub 
or  dwarf  oak,  very  dense  in  some  parts,  in  others  thin, 
with  open,  barren  patches,  and  like  a  wild  forest,  cover- 
ing altogether  twelve  or  fourteen  square  miles — perhaps 
more.  There  are  no  houses  near,  and  no  people  in  it 
except  a  few  gamekeepers:  I  spent  long  days  in  it  without 
meeting  a  human  being.  It  was  a  joy  to  me  to  find  such 
a  spot  in  England,  so  wild  and  solitary,  and  I  was  filled 
with  pleasing  anticipation  of  all  the  wild  life  I  should 
see  in  such  a  place,  especially  after  an  experience  I  had 
on  my  second  day  in  it.  I  was  standing  in  an  open  glade 
when  a  cock-pheasant  uttered  a  cry  of  alarm,  and  imme- 
diately afterwards,  startled  by  the  cry  perhaps,  a  roe- 
deer  rushed  out  of  the  close  thicket  of  oak  and  holly  in 
which  it  had  been  hiding,  and  ran  past  me  at  a  very  short 
distance,  giving  me  a  good  sight  of  this  shyest  of  the 
large  wild  animals  still  left  to  us.  He  looked  very  beau- 
tiful to  me,  in  that  mouse-coloured  coat  which  makes  him 
invisible  in  the  deep  shade  in  which  he  is  accustomed 
to  pass  the  daylight  hours  in  hiding,  as  he  fled  across 
the  green  open  space  in  the  brilliant  May  sunshine.  But 
he  was  only  one,  a  chance  visitor,  a  wanderer  from  wood 
to  wood  about  the  land;  and  he  had  been  seen  once,  a 
month  before  my  encounter  with  him,  and  ever  since 
then  the  keepers  had  been  watching  and  waiting  for  him, 
gun  in  hand,  to  send  a  charge  of  shot  into  his  side. 


THE  SHEPHERD  AS  NATURALIST     285 

That  was  the  best  and  the  only  great  thing  I  saw  in 
the  Great  Ridge  Wood,  for  the  curse  of  the  pheasant 
is  on  it  as  on  all  the  woods  and  forests  in  Wiltshire,  and 
all  wild  life  considered  injurious  to  the  semi-domestic 
bird,  from  the  sparrowhawk  to  the  harrier  and  buzzard 
and  goshawk,  and  from  the  little  mousing  weasel  to  the 
badger;  and  all  the  wild  life  that  is  only  beautiful,  or 
which  delights  us  because  of  its  wildness,  from  the  squir- 
rel to  the  roe-deer,  must  be  included  in  the  slaughter. 

One  very  long  summer  day  spent  in  roaming  about  in 
this  endless  wood,  always  on  the  watch,  had  for  sole 
result,  so  far  as  anything  out  of  the  common  goes,  the 
spectacle  of  a  hare  sitting  on  a  stump.  The  hare  started 
up  at  a  distance  of  over  a  hundred  yards  before  me  and 
rushed  straight  away  at  first,  then  turned  and  ran  on 
my  left  so  as  to  get  round  to  the  side  from  which  I  had 
come.  I  stood  still  and  watched  him  as  he  moved  swiftly 
over  the  ground,  seeing  him  not  as  a  hare  but  as  a  dim 
brown  object  successively  appearing,  vanishing,  and  re- 
appearing, behind  and  between  the  brown  tree-trunks, 
until  he  had  traced  half  a  circle  and  was  then  suddenly 
lost  to  sight.  Thinking  that  he  had  come  to  a  stand  I  put 
my  binocular  on  the  spot  where  he  had  vanished,  and 
saw  him  sitting  on  an  old  oak  stump  about  thirty  inches 
high.  It  was  a  round  mossy  stump  about  eighteen  inches 
in  diameter,  standing  in  a  bed  of  brown  dead  leaves,  with 
the  rough  brown  trunks  of  other  dwarf  oak-tr«es  on 
either  side  of  it.  The  animal  was  sitting  motionless,  in 
profile,  its  ears  erect,  seeing  me  with  one  eye,  and  was 
like  a  carved  figure  of  a  hare  set  on  a  pedestal,  and  had 
a  very  striking  appearance. 

As  I  had  never  seen  such  a  thing  before  I  thought  if 


286 


A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 


was  worth  mentioning  to  a  keeper  I  called  to  see  at  his 
lodge  on  my  way  back  in  the  evening.  It  had  been  a 
blank  day,  I  told  him — a  hare  sitting  on  a  stump  being 
the  only  thing  I  could  remember  to  tell  him.  "Well," 
he  said,  "you've  seen  something  I've  never  seen  in  all 
the  years  I've  been  in  these  woods.  And  yet,  when  you 
come  to  think  of  it,  it's  just  what  one  might  expect  a 


^^=*.-wp^ 


^Ws^ART*    OA1C3     IN    TMT     GRE-4T    KHXJ^"   V/OOI> 


hare  would  do.  The  wood  is  full  of  old  stumps,  and  it 
seems  only  natural  a  hare  should  jump  on  to  one  to 
get  a  better  view  of  a  man  or  animal  at  a  distance  among 
the  trees.    But  I  never  saw  it." 

What,  then,  had  he  seen  worth  remembering  during 
his  long  hours  in  the  wood  on  that  day,  or  the  day  before, 
or  on  any  day  during  the  last  thirty  years  since  he  had 
been  policing  that  wood,  I  asked  him.  He  answered 
that  he  had  seen  many  strange  things,  but  he  was  not 


THE  SHEPHERD  AS  NATURALIST     287 

now  able  to  remember  one  to  tell  me !  He  said,  further, 
that  the  only  things  he  remembered  were  those  that  re- 
lated to  his  business  of  guarding  and  rearing  the  birds; 
all  other  things  he  observed  in  animals,  however  remark- 
able they  might  seem  to  him  at  the  moment,  were  things 
that  didn't  matter  and  were  quickly  forgotten. 

On  the  very  next  day  I  was  out  on  the  down  with  a 
gipsy,  and  we  got  talking  about  wild  animals.  He  was 
a  middle-aged  man  and  a  very  perfect  specimen  of  his 
race — not  one  of  the  blue-eyed  and  red  or  light-haired 
bastard  gipsies,  but  dark  as  a  Red  Indian,  with  eyes  like 
a  hawk,  and  altogether  a  hawk-like  being,  lean,  wiry, 
alert,  a  perfectly  wild  man  in  a  tame,  civilized  land.  The 
lean,  mouse-coloured  lurcher  that  followed  at  his  heels 
was  perfect,  too,  in  his  way — man  and  dog  appeared 
made  for  one  another.  When  this  man  spoke  of  his  life, 
spent  in  roaming  about  the  country,  of  his  very  perfect 
health,  and  of  his  hatred  of  houses,  the  very  atmosphere 
of  any  indoor  place  producing  a  suffocating  and  sicken- 
ing effect  on  him,  I  envied  him  as  I  envy  birds  their 
wings,  and  as  I  can  never  envy  men  who  live  in  mansions. 
His  was  the  wild,  the  real  life,  and  it  seemed  to  me  that 
there  was  no  other  worth  living. 

"You  know,"  said  he,  in  the  course  of  our  talk  about 
wild  animals,  "we  are  very  fond  of  hedgehogs — we  like 
them  better  than  rabbits." 

"Well,  so  do  I,"  was  my  remark.  I  am  not  quite  sure 
that  I  do,  but  that  is  what  I  told  him.  "But  now  you 
talk  of  hedgehogs,"  I  said,  "it's  funny  to  think  that, 
common  as  the  animal  is,  it  has  some  queer  habits  I 
can't  find  anything  about  from  gamekeepers  and  others 
I've  talked  to  on  the  subject,  or  from  my  own  observa- 


288  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

tion.  Yet  one  would  imagine  that  we  know  all  there  is 
to  be  known  about  the  little  beast;  you'll  find  his  history 
in  a  hundred  books — perhaps  in  five  hundred.  There's 
one  book  about  our  British  animals  so  big  you'd  hardly 
be  able  to  lift  its  three  volumes  from  the  ground  with 
all  your  strength,  in  which  its  author  has  raked  together 
everything  known  about  the  hedgehog,  but  he  doesn't 
give  me  the  information  I  want — just  what  I  went  to 
the  book  to  find.  Now  here's  what  a  friend  of  mine 
once  saw.  He's  not  a  naturalist,  nor  a  sportsman,  nor 
a  gamekeeper,  and  not  a  gipsy;  he  doesn't  observe  ani- 
mals or  want  to  find  out  their  ways ;  he  is  a  writer,  occu- 
pied day  and  night  with  his  writing,  sitting  among  books, 
yet  he  saw  something  which  the  naturalists  and  game- 
keepers haven't  seen,  so  far  as  I  know.  He  was  going 
home  one  moonlight  night  by  a  footpath  through  the 
woods  when  he  heard  a  very  strange  noise  a  little  dis- 
tance ahead,  a  low  whistling  sound,  very  sharp,  like  the 
continuous  twittering  of  a  little  bird  with  a  voice  like 
a  bat,  or  a  shrew,  only  softer,  more  musical.  He  went 
on  very  cautiously  until  he  spied  two  hedgehogs  standing 
on  the  path  facing  each  other,  with  their  noses  almost  or 
quite  touching.  He  remained  watching  and  listening  to 
them  for  some  moments,  then  tried  to  go  a  little  nearer 
and  they  ran  away. 

"Now  I've  asked  about  a  dozen  gamekeepers  if  they 
ever  saw  such  a  thing,  and  all  said  they  hadn't;  they 
never  heard  hedgehogs  make  that  twittering  sound,  like 
a  bird  or  a  singing  mouse;  they  had  only  heard  them 
scream  like  a  rabbit  when  in  a  trap.  Now  what  do  you 
say  about  it?" 

"I've  never  seen  anything  like  that,"  said  the  gipsy. 


THE  SHEPHERD  AS  NATURALIST     289 

"I  only  know  the  hedgehog  makes  a  little  whistling  sound 
when  he  first  comes  out  at  night;  I  believe  it  is  a  sort  of 
call  they  have." 

"But  no  doubt,"  I  said,  "you've  seen  other  queer  things 
in  hedgehogs  and  in  other  little  animals  which  I  should 
like  to  hear." 

Yes,  he  had,  first  and  last,  seen  a  good  many  queer 
things  both  by  day  and  night,  in  woods  and  other  places, 
he  replied,  and  then  continued:  "But  you  see  it's  like 
this.  We  see  something  and  say  'Now  that's  a  curious 
thing !'  and  then  we  forget  all  about  it.  You  see,  we  don't 
lay  no  store  by  such  things;  we  ain't  scolards  and  don't 
know  nothing  about  what's  said  in  books.  We  see 
something  and  say  That's  something  we  never  saw  before 
and  never  heard  tell  of,  but  maybe  others  have  seen  it 
and  you  can  find  it  in  the  books.  So  that's  how  'tis, 
but  if  I  hadn't  forgotten  them  I  could  have  told  you  a 
lot  of  queer  things." 

That  was  all  he  could  say,  and  few  can  say  more. 
Caleb  was  one  of  the  few  who  could,  and  one  wonders 
why  it  was  so,  seeing  that  he  was  occupied  with  his  own 
tasks  in  the  fields  and  on  the  down  where  wild  life  is 
least  abundant  and  varied,  and  that  his  opportunities 
were  so  few  compared  with  those  of  the  gamekeeper. 
It  was,  I  take  it,  because  he  had  sympathy  for  the  crea- 
tures he  observed,  that  their  actions  had  stamped  them- 
selves on  his  memory,  because  he  had  seen  them  emo- 
tionally. We  have  seen  how  well  he  remembered  the 
many  sheep-dogs  he  had  owned,  how  vividly  their  various 
characters  are  portrayed  in  his  account  of  them.  I  have 
met  with  shepherds  who  had  little  to  tell  about  the  dogs 
they  had  possessed;  they  had  regarded  their  dogs  as 


290  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

useful  servants  and  nothing  more  as  long  as  they  lived, 
and  when  dead  they  were  forgotten.  But  Caleb  had  a 
feeling  for  his  dogs  which  made  it  impossible  for  him 
to  forget  them  or  to  recall  them  without  that  tenderness 
which  accompanies  the  thought  of  vanished  human 
friends.  In  a  lesser  degree  he  had  something  of  this 
feeling  for  all  animals,  down  even  to  the  most  minute 
and  unconsidered.  I  recall  here  one  of  his  anecdotes  of 
a  very  small  creature — a  shrew,  or  over-runner,  as  he 
called  it. 

One  day  when  out  with  his  flock  a  sudden  storm  of 
rain  caused  him  to  seek  for  shelter  in  an  old  untrimmed 
hedge  close  by.  He  crept  into  the  ditch,  full  of  old  dead 
leaves  beneath  the  tangle  of  thorns  and  brambles,  and 
setting  his  back  against  the  bank  he  thrust  his  legs  out, 
and  as  he  did  so  was  startled  by  an  outburst  of  shrill 
little  screams  at  his  feet.  Looking  down  he  spied  a 
shrew  standing  on  the  dead  leaves  close  to  his  boot, 
screaming  with  all  its  might,  its  long  thin  snout  pointed 
upwards  and  its  mouth  wide  open;  and  just  above  it, 
two  or  three  inches  perhaps,  hovered  a  small  brown 
butterfly.  There  for  a  few  moments  it  continued  hover- 
ing while  the  shrew  continued  screaming ;  then  the  butter- 
fly flitted  away  and  the  shrew  disappeared  among  the 
dead  leaves. 

Caleb  laughed  (a  rare  thing  with  him)  when  he  nar- 
rated this  little  incident,  then  remarked:  "The  over- 
runner  was  a-crying  'cause  he  couldn't  catch  that  leetel 
butterfly." 

The  shepherd's  inference  was  wrong;  he  did  not  know 
— few  do — that  the  shrew  has  the  singular  habit,  when 
surprised  on  the  surface  and  in  danger,  of  remaining 


THE  SHEPHERD  AS  NATURALIST    291 

motionless  and  uttering  shrill  cries.  His  foot,  set  down 
close  to  it,  had  set  it  screaming;  the  small  butterfly,  no 
doubt  disturbed  at  the  same  moment,  was  there  by  chance. 
I  recall  here  another  little  story  he  related  of  a  bird — a 
long-eared  owl. 

One  summer  there  was  a  great  drought,  and  the  rooks, 
unable  to  get  their  usual  food  from  the  hard,  sun-baked 
pasture-lands,  attacked  the  roots  and  would  have  pretty 
well  destroyed  them  if  the  farmer  had  not  protected  his 
swedes  by  driving  in  stakes  and  running  lines  of  cotton- 
thread  and  twine  from  stake  to  stake  all  over  the  field. 
This  kept  them  off,  just  as  thread  keeps  the  chaffinches 
from  the  seed-beds  in  small  gardens,  and  as  it  keeps  the 
sparrows  from  the  crocuses  on  lawns  and  ornamental 
grounds.  One  day  Caleb  caught  sight  of  an  odd-looking, 
brownish-grey  object  out  in  the  middle  of  the  turnip- 
field,  and  as  he  looked  it  rose  up  two  or  three  feet  into 
the  air,  then  dropped  back  again,  and  this  curious  move- 
ment was  repeated  at  intervals  of  two  or  three  minutes 
until  he  went  to  see  what  the  thing  was.  It  turned  out 
to  be  a  long-eared  owl,  with  its  foot  accidentally  caught 
by  a  slack  thread,  which  allowed  the  bird  to  rise  a  couple 
of  feet  into  the  air;  but  every  such  attempt  to  escape 
ended  in  its  being  pulled  back  to  the  ground  again.  It 
was  so  excessively  lean,  so  weightless  in  his  hand,  when 
he  took  it  up  after  disengaging  its  foot,  that  he  thought 
it  must  have  been  captive  for  the  space  of  two  or  three 
days.  The  wonder  was  that  it  had  kept  alive  during 
those  long  midsummer  days  of  intolerable  heat  out  there 
in  the  middle  of  the  burning  field.  Yet  it  was  in  very 
fine  feather  and  beautiful  to  look  at  with  its  long,  black 
ear-tufts  and  round,  orange-yellow  eyes,  which  would 


292  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

never  lose  their  fiery  lustre  until  glazed  in  death.  Caleb's 
first  thought  on  seeing  it  closely  was  that  it  would  have 
been  a  prize  to  anyone  who  liked  to  have  a  handsome 
bird  stuffed  in  a  glass  case.  Then  raising  it  over  his 
head  he  allowed  it  to  fly,  whereupon  it  flew  off  a  dis- 
tance of  a  dozen  or  fifteen  yards  and  pitched  among  the 
turnips,  after  which  it  ran  a  little  space  and  rose  again 
with  labour,  but  soon  recovering  strength  it  flew  away 
over  the  field  and  finally  disappeared  in  the  deep  shade 
of  the  copse  beyond. 

In  relating  these  things  the  voice,  the  manner,  the 
expression  in  his  eyes,  were  more  than  the  mere  words, 
and  displayed  the  feeling  which  had  caused  these  little 
incidents  to  endure  so  long  in  his  memory. 

The  gamekeeper  cannot  have  this  feeling:  he  may 
come  to  his  task  with  the  liveliest  interest  in,  even  with 
sympathy  for,  the  wild  creatures  amidst  which  he  will 
spend  his  life,  but  it  is  all  soon  lost.  His  business  in  the 
woods  is  to  kill,  and  the  reflex  effect  is  to  extinguish 
all  interest  in  the  living  animal — in  its  life  and  mind. 
It  would,  indeed,  be  a  wonderful  thing  if  he  could  remem- 
ber any  singular  action  or  appearance  of  an  animal  which 
he  had  witnessed  before  bringing  his  gun  automatically 
to  his  shoulder. 


'CHIUHABK* 


.    >4:: 


-DiTLJO: 


CHAPTER   XXIII 
The  Master  of  the  Village 

Moral  effect  of  the  great  man — An  orphaned  village — 
The  masters  of  the  village — Elijah  Raven — Strange 
appearance  and  character — Elijah's  house — The  owls 
—  Two  rooms  in  the  house  —  Elijah  hardens  with 
time — The  village  club  and  its  arbitrary  secretary — 
Caleb  dips  the  lambs  and  falls  ill — His  claim  on  the 
club  rejected — Elijah  in  court 

In  my  roamings  about  the  downs  it  is  always  a  relief — 
a  positive  pleasure  in  fact — to  find  myself  in  a  village 
which  has  no  squire  or  other  magnificent  and  munificent 
person  who  dominates  everybody  and  everything,  and, 
if  he  chooses  to  do  so,  plays  providence  in  the  community. 
I  may  have  no  personal  objection  to  him — he  is  sometimes 
almost  if  not  quite  human ;  what  I  heartily  dislike  is  the 
effect  of  bis  position  (that  of  a  giant  among  pigmies) 

293 


294  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

on  the  lowly  minds  about  him,  and  the  servility,  hypoc- 
risy, and  parasitism  which  spring  up  and  flourish  in  his 
wide  shadow  whether  he  likes  these  moral  weeds  or 
not.  As  a  rule  he  likes  them,  since  the  poor  devil  has 
this  In  common  with  the  rest  of  us,  that  he  likes  to  stand 
high  in  the  general  regard.  But  how  is  he  to  know  it 
unless  he  witnesses  its  outward  beautiful  signs  every 
day  and  every  hour  on  every  countenance  he  looks  upon? 
Better,  to  my  mind,  the  severer  conditions,  the  poverty 
and  unmerited  sufferings  which  cannot  be  relieved,  with 
the  greater  manliness  and  self  -  dependence  when  the 
people  are  left  to  work  out  their  own  destiny.  On  this 
account  I  was  pleased  to  make  the  discovery  on  my  first 
visit  to  Caleb's  native  village  that  there  was  no  magnate, 
or  other  big  man,  and  no  gentleman  except  the  parson, 
who  was  not  a  rich  man.  It  was,  so  to  speak,  one  of 
the  orphaned  villages  left  to  fend  for  itself  and  fight  its 
own  way  in  a  hard  world,  and  had  nobody  even  to  give 
the  customary  blankets  and  sack  of  coals  to  its  old 
women.  Nor  was  there  any  very  big  farmer  in  the  place, 
certainly  no  gentleman  farmer;  they  were  mostly  small 
men,  some  of  them  hardly  to  be  distinguished  in  speech 
and  appearance  from  their  hired  labourers. 

In  these  small  isolated  communities  it  is  common  to 
find  men  who  have  succeeded  in  rising  above  the  others 
and  in  establishing  a  sort  of  mastery  over  them.  They 
set  a  man  a  little  apart,  a  little  higher  than  the  others, 
who  are  never  able  to  better  themselves ;  the  main  differ- 
ence is  that  they  are  harder  and  more  grasping  and  have 
more  self-control.  These  qualities  tell  eventually,  and 
set  a  man  a  little  apart,  a  little  higher  than  the  others, 
and  he  gets  the  taste  of  power,  which  reacts  on  him  like 


THE    MASTER   OF   THE    VILLAGE     295 

the  first  taste  of  blood  on  the  big  cat.  Henceforward 
he  has  his  ideal,  his  definite  goal,  which  is  to  get  the 
upper  hand — to  be  on  top.  He  may  be,  and  generally 
is,  an  exceedingly  unpleasant  fellow  to  have  for  a  neigh- 
bour— mean,  sordid,  greedy,  tyrannous,  even  cruel,  and 
he  may  be  generally  hated  and  despised  as  well,  but  along 
with  these  feelings  there  will  be  a  kind  of  shamefaced 
respect  and  admiration  for  his  courage  in  following  his 
own  line  in  defiance  of  what  others  think  and  feel.  It  is 
after  all  with  man  as  with  the  social  animals:  he  must 
have  a  master — not  a  policeman,  or  magistrate,  or  a 
vague,  far-away,  impersonal  something  called  the  authori- 
ties or  the  government;  but  a  head  of  the  pack  or  herd, 
a  being  like  himself  whom  he  knows  and  sees  and  hears 
and  feels  every  day.  A  real  man,  dressed  in  old  familiar 
clothes,  a  fellow-villager,  who,  wolf  or  dog  like,  has 
fought  his  way  to  the  mastership. 

There  was  a  person  of  this  kind  at  Winterbourne 
Bishop  who  was  often  mentioned  in  Caleb's  reminis- 
cences, for  he  had  left  a  very  strong  impression  on  the 
shepherd's  mind — as  strong,  perhaps,  though  in  a  dis- 
agreeable way,  as  that  of  Isaac  his  father,  and  of  Mr. 
Ellerby  of  Doveton.  For  not  only  was  he  a  man  of  great 
force  of  character,  but  he  was  of  eccentric  habits  and 
of  a  somewhat  grotesque  appearance. 

The  curious  name  of  this  person  was  Elijah  Raven. 
He  was  a  native  of  the  village  and  lived  till  extreme  old 
age  in  it,  the  last  of  his  family,  in  a  small  house  inherited 
from  his  father,  situated  about  the  center  of  the  village 
street.  It  was  a  quaint,  old,  timbered  house,  Httle  bigger 
than  a  cottage,  with  a  thatched  roof,  and  behind  it  some 
outbuildings,  a  small  orchard,  and  a  field  of  a  dozen  or 


296  C^   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

fifteen  acres.  Here  he  lived  with  one  other  person,  an 
old  man  who  did  the  cooking  and  housework,  but  after 
this  man  died  he  lived  alone.  Not  only  was  he  a  bachelor, 
but  he  would  never  allow  any  woman  to  come  inside 
his  house.  Elijah's  one  idea  was  to  get  the  advantage 
of  others — to  make  himself  master  in  the  village.  Begin- 
ning poor,  he  worked  in  a  small,  cautious,  peddling  way 
at  farming,  taking  a  field  or  meadow  or  strip  of  down 
here  and  there  in  the  neighbourhood,  keeping  a  few  sheep, 
a  few  cows,  buying  and  selling  and  breeding  horses. 
The  men  he  employed  were  those  he  could  get  at  low 
wages — poor  labourers  who  were  without  a  place  and 
wanted  to  fill  up  a  vacant  time,  or  men  like  the  Targetts 
described  in  a  former  chapter  who  could  be  imposed 
upon ;  also  gipsies  who  flitted  about  the  country,  working 
in  a  spasmodic  way  when  in  the  mood  for  the  farmers 
who  could  tolerate  them,  and  who  were  paid  about  half 
the  wages  of  an  ordinary  labourer.  If  a  poor  man  had 
to  find  money  quickly,  on  account  of  illness  or  some 
other  cause,  he  could  get  it  from  Elijah  at  once — not 
borrowed,  since  Elijah  neither  lent  nor  gave — but  he 
could  sell  him  anything  he  possessed — a  horse  or  cow, 
or  sheep-dog,  or  a  piece  of  furniture;  and  if  he  had 
nothing  to  sell,  Elijah  would  give  him  something  to  do 
and  pay  him  something  for  it.  The  great  thing  was 
that  Elijah  had  money  which  he  was  always  willing  to 
circulate.  At  his  unlamented  death  he  left  several  thou- 
sands of  pounds,  which  went  to  a  distant  relation,  and 
a  name  which  does  not  smell  sweet  but  is  still  remem- 
bered not  only  at  Winterbourne  Bishop  but  at  many 
other  villages  on  Salisbury  Plain. 

Elijah  was  short  of  stature,  broad  shouldered,  with 


THE    MASTER   OF   THE   VILLAGE     297 

an  abnormally  big  head  and  large  dark  eyes.  They  say 
that  he  never  cut  his  hair  in  his  life.  It  was  abundant 
and  curly,  and  grew  to  his  shoulders,  and  when  he  was 
old  and  his  great  mass  of  hair  and  beard  became  white 
it  was  said  that  he  resembled  a  gigantic  white  owl. 
Mothers  frightened  their  children  into  quiet  by  saying, 
"Elijah  will  get  you  if  you  don't  behave  yourself."  He 
knew  and  resented  this,  and  though  he  never  noticed  a 
child  he  hated  to  have  the  little  ones  staring  in  a  half- 
terrified  way  at  him.  To  seclude  himself  more  from  the 
villagers  he  planted  holly  and  yew  bushes  before  his 
house,  and  eventually  the  entire  building  was  hidden 
from  sight  by  the  dense  evergreen  thicket.  The  trees 
were  cut  down  after  his  death:  they  were  gone  when  I 
first  visited  the  village  and  by  chance  found  a  lodging 
in  the  house,  and  congratulated  myself  that  I  had  got 
the  quaintest,  old  rambling  rooms  I  had  ever  inhabited. 
I  did  not  know  that  I  was  in  Ehjah  Raven's  house,  al- 
though his  name  had  long  been  familiar  to  me:  it  only 
came  out  one  day  when  I  asked  my  landlady,  who  was 
a  native,  to  tell  me  the  history  of  the  place.  She  remem- 
bered how  as  a  little  girl,  full  of  mischief  and  greatly 
daring,  she  had  sometimes  climbed  over  the  low  front 
wall  to  hide  under  the  thick  yew  bushes  and  watch  to 
catch  a  sight  of  the  owlish  old  man  at  his  door  or  window. 
For  many  years  Elijah  had  two  feathered  tenants,  a 
pair  of  white  owls — the  birds  he  so  much  resembled. 
They  occupied  a  small  garret  at  the  end  of  his  bedroom, 
having  access  to  it  through  a  hole  under  the  thatch.  They 
bred  there  in  peace,  and  on  summer  evenings  one  of  the 
common  sights  of  the  village  was  Elijah's  owls  flying 
from  the  house  behind  the  evergreens  and  returning  to 


298  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

it  with  mice  in  their  talons.  At  such  seasons  the  threat 
to  the  unruly  children  would  be  varied  to  "Old  Elijah's 
owls  will  get  you."  Naturally,  the  children  grew  up  with 
the  idea  of  the  bird  and  the  owlish  old  man  associated 
in  their  minds. 

It  was  odd  that  the  two  very  rooms  which  Elijah  had 
occupied  during  all  those  solitary  years,  the  others  being 
given  over  to  spiders  and  dust,  should  have  been  assigned 
to  me  when  I  came  to  lodge  in  the  house.  The  first,  my 
sitting-room,  was  so  low  that  my  hair  touched  the  ceiling 
when  I  stood  up  my  full  height ;  it  had  a  brick  floor  and 
a  wide  old  fireplace  on  one  side.  Though  so  low-ceilinged 
it  was  very  large  and  good  to  be  in  when  I  returned  from 
a  long  ramble  on  the  downs,  sometimes  wet  and  cold, 
to  sit  by  a  wood  fire  and  warm  myself.  At  night  when 
I  climbed  to  my  bedroom  by  means  of  the  narrow, 
prooked,  worm-eaten  staircase,  with  two  difficult  and 
dangerous  corners  to  get  round,  I  would  lie  awake  staring 
at  the  small  square  patch  of  greyness  in  the  black  interior 
made  by  the  latticed  window;  and  listening  to  the  wind 
and  rain  outside,  would  remember  that  the  sordid,  owlish 
old  man  had  slept  there  and  stared  nightly  at  that  same 
grey  patch  in  the  dark  for  very  many  years.  If,  I 
thought,  that  something  of  a  man  which  remains  here 
below  to  haunt  the  scene  of  its  past  life  is  more  likely 
to  exist  and  appear  to  mortal  eyes  in  the  case  of  a  person 
of  strong  individuality,  then  there  is  a  chance  that  I  may 
be  visited  this  night  by  Elijah  Raven  his  ghost.  But 
his  owlish  countenance  never  appeared  between  me  and 
that  patch  of  pale  dim  light ;  nor  did  I  ever  feel  a  breath 
of  cold  unearthly  air  on  me. 

Elijah  did  not  improve  with  time ;  the  years  that  made 


THE    MASTER   OF   THE    VILLAGE     299 

him  long-haired,  whiter,  and  more  owl-Hke  also  made 
him  more  penurious  and  grasping,  and  anxious  to  get 
the  better  of  every  person  about  him.  There  was  scarcely 
a  poor  person  in  the  village — not  a  field  labourer  nor 
shepherd  nor  farmer's  boy,  nor  any  old  woman  he  had 
employed,  who  did  not  consider  that  they  had  suffered 
at  his  hands.  The  very  poorest  could  not  escape;  if  he 
got  some  one  to  work  for  fourpence  a  day  he  would  find 
a  reason  to  keep  back  a  portion  of  the  small  sum  due  to 
him.  At  the  same  time  he  wanted  to  be  well  thought  of, 
and  at  length  an  opportunity  came  to  him  to  figure  as 
one  who  did  not  live  wholly  for  himself  but  rather  as 
a  person  ready  to  go  out  of  his  way  to  help  his  neigh- 
bours. 

There  had  long  existed  a  small  benefit  society  or  club 
in  the  village  to  which  most  of  the  farm-hands  in  the 
parish  belonged,  the  members  numbering  about  sixty  or 
seventy.  Subscriptions  were  paid  quarterly,  but  the  rules 
were  not  strict,  and  any  member  could  take  a  week  or  a 
fortnight  longer  to  pay;  when  a  member  fell  ill  he  re- 
ceived half  the  amount  of  his  wages  a  week  from  the 
funds  in  hand,  and  once  a  year  they  had  a  dinner.  The 
secretary  was  a  labourer,  and  in  time  he  grew  old  and 
infirm  and  could  not  hold  a  pen  in  his  rheumaticky  fingers, 
and  a  meeting  was  held  to  consider  what  was  to  be  done 
in  the  matter.  It  was  not  an  easy  one  to  settle.  There 
were  few  members  capable  of  keeping  the  books  who 
would  undertake  the  duty,  as  it  was  unpaid,  and  no  one 
among  them  well  known  and  trusted  by  all  the  members. 
It  was  then  that  Elijah  Raven  came  to  the  rescue.  He 
attended  the  meeting,  which  he  was  allowed  to  do  owing 
to  his  being  a  person  of  importance — the  only  one  of 


300  'A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

that  description  in  the  village ;  and  getting  up  on  his  legs 
he  made  the  offer  to  act  as  secretary  himself.  This  came 
as  a  great  surprise,  and  the  offer  was  at  once  and  unani- 
mously accepted,  all  unpleasant  feelings  being  forgotten, 
and  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  Elijah  heard  himself 
praised  as  a  disinterested  person,  one  it  was  good  to  have 
in  the  village. 

Things  went  on  very  well  for  a  time,  and  at  the  yearly 
dinner  of  the  club  a  few  months  later,  Elijah  gave  an 
account  of  his  stewardship,  showing  that  the  club  had 
a  surplus  of  two  hundred  pounds.  Shortly  after  this 
trouble  began;  Elijah,  it  was  said,  was  making  use  of 
his  position  as  secretary  for  his  own  private  interests 
and  to  pay  off  old  scores  against  those  he  disliked.  When 
a  man  came  with  his  quarterly  subscription  Elijah  would 
perhaps  remember  that  this  person  had  refused  to  work 
for  him  or  that  he  had  some  quarrel  with  him,  and  if 
the  subscription  was  overdue  he  would  refuse  to  take  it; 
he  would  tell  the  man  that  he  was  no  longer  a  member, 
and  he  also  refused  to  give  sick  pay  to  any  applicant 
whose  last  subscription  was  still  due,  if  he  happened  to 
be  in  Elijah's  black  book.  By  and  by  he  came  into  col- 
lision with  Caleb,  one  of  the  villagers  against  whom  he 
cherished  a  special  grudge,  and  this  small  affair  resulted 
in  the  dissolution  of  the  club. 

At  this  time  Caleb  was  head-shepherd  at  Bartle's  Cross, 
a  large  farm  above  a  mile  and  a  half  from  the  village. 
One  excessively  hot  day  in  August  he  had  to  dip  the 
lambs;  it  was  very  hard  work  to  drive  them  from  the 
farm  over  a  high  down  to  the  stream  a  mile  below  the 
village,  where  there  was  a  dipping  place,  and  he  was 
tired  and  hot,  and  in  a  sweat  when  he  began  his  work. 


THE    MASTER    OF    THE    VILLAGE     301 

With  his  arms  bared  to  the  shoulders  he  took  and  plunged 
his  first  lamb  into  the  tank.  When  engaged  in  dipping, 
he  said,  he  always  kept  his  mouth  closed  tightly  for  fear 
of  getting  even  a  drop  of  the  mixture  in  it,  but  on  this 
occasion  it  unfortunately  happened  that  the  man  assisting 
him  spoke  to  him  and  he  was  compelled  to  reply,  but  had 
no  sooner  opened  his  mouth  to  speak  than  the  lamb  made 
a  violent  struggle  in  his  arms  and  splashed  the  w^ater 
over  his  face  and  into  his  mouth.  He  got  rid  of  it  as 
quickly  as  he  could,  but  soon  began  to  feel  bad,  and  before 
the  work  was  over  he  ha,d  to  sit  down  two  or  three  times 
to  rest.  However,  he  struggled  on  to  the  finish,  then  took 
the  flock  home  and  went  to  his  cottage.  He  could  do 
no  more.  The  farmer  came  to  see  what  the  matter  was, 
and  found  him  in  a  fever,  with  face  and  throat  greatly 
swollen.  "You  look  bad,"  he  said;  "you  must  be  off 
to  the  doctor."  But  it  was  five  miles  to  the  village  where 
the  doctor  lived,  and  Bawcombe  replied  that  he  couldn't 
go.  *Tm  too  bad — I  couldn't  go,  master,  if  you  offered 
me  money  for  it,"  he  said. 

Then  the  farmer  mounted  his  horse  and  went  himself, 
and  the  doctor  came.  "No  doubt,"  he  said,  "you've  got 
some  of  the  poison  into  your  system  and  took  a  chill  at 
the  same  time."  The  illness  lasted  six  weeks,  and  then 
the  shepherd  resumed  work,  although  still  feeling  very 
shaky.  By  and  by  when  the  opportunity  came,  he  went 
to  claim  his  sick  pay — six  shillings  a  week  for  the  six 
weeks,  his  wages  being  then  twelve  shillings.  Elijah 
flatly  refused  to  pay  him:  his  subscription,  he  said,  had 
been  due  for  several  weeks  and  he  had  consequently  for- 
feited his  right  to  anything.  In  vain  the  shepherd  ex- 
plained that  he  could  not  pay  when  lying  ill  at  home 


302  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

with  no  money  in  the  house  and  receiving  no  pay  from 
the  farmer.  The  old  man  remained  obdurate,  and  with 
a  very  heavy  heart  the  shepherd  came  out  and  found 
three  or  four  of  the  villagers  waiting  in  the  road  outside 
to  hear  the  result  of  the  application.  They,  too,  were 
men  who  had  been  turned  away  from  the  club  by  the 
arbitrary  secretary.  Caleb  was  telling  them  about  his 
interview  when  Elijah  came  out  of  the  house  and  lean- 
ing over  the  front  gate  began  to  listen.  The  shepherd 
then  turned  towards  him  and  said  in  a  loud  voice:  "Mr. 
Elijah  Raven,  don't  you  think  this  is  a  tarrible  hard 
case !  I've  paid  my  subscription  every  quarter  for  thirty 
years  and  never  had  nothing  from  the  fund  except  two 
weeks'  pay  when  I  were  bad  some  years  ago.  Now  I've 
been  bad  six  weeks,  and  my  master  giv'  me  nothing  for 
that  time,  and  I've  got  the  doctor  to  pay  and  nothing 
to  live  on.    What  am  I  to  do?" 

Elijah  stared  at  him  in  silence  for  some  time,  then 
spoke :  "I  told  you  in  there  I  wouldn't  pay  you  one  penny 
of  the  money  and  I'll  hold  to  what  I  said — in  there  I 
said  it  indoors,  and  I  say  again  that  indoors  I'll  never 
pay  you — no,  not  one  penny  piece.  But  if  I  happen 
some  day  to  meet  you  out  of  doors  then  I'll  pay  you. 
Now  go." 

And  go  he  did,  very  meekly,  his  wrath  going  down 
as  he  trudged  home;  for  after  all  he  would  have  his 
money  by  and  by,  although  the  hard  old  man  would 
punish  him  for  past  offences  by  making  him  wait  for  it. 

A  week  or  so  went  by,  and  then  one  day  while  passing 
through  the  village  he  saw  Elijah  coming  towards  him, 
and  said  to  himself,  Now  I'll  be  paid!  When  the  two 
men  drew  near  together  he  cried  out  cheerfully,  "Good 


THE    MASTER   OF   THE   VILLAGE    303 

morning,  Mr.  Raven."  The  other  without  a  word  and 
without  a  pause  passed  by  on  his  way,  leaving  the  poor 
shepherd  gazing  crestfallen  after  him. 

After  all  he  would  not  get  his  money !  The  question 
was  discussed  in  the  cottages,  and  by  and  by  one  of  the 
villagers  who  was  not  so  poor  as  most  of  them,  and  went 
occasionally  to  Salisbury,  said  he  would  ask  an  attorney's 
advice  about  the  matter.  He  would  pay  for  the  advice 
out  of  his  own  pocket ;  he  wanted  to  know  if  Elijah  could 
lawfully  do  such  things. 

To  the  man's  astonishment  the  attorney  said  that  as 
the  club  was  not  registered  and  the  members  had  them- 
selves made  Elijah  their  head  he  could  do  as  he  liked — 
no  action  would  lie  against  him.  But  if  it  was  true  and 
it  could  be  proved  that  he  had  spoken  those  words  about 
paying  the  shepherd  his  money  if  he  met  him  out  of 
doors,  then  he  could  be  made  to  pay.  He  also  said  he 
would  take  the  case  up  and  bring  it  into  court  if  a  sum 
of  five  pounds  was  guaranteed  to  cover  expenses  in  case 
the  decision  went  against  them. 

Poor  Caleb,  with  twelve  shillings  a  week  to  pay  his 
debts  and  live  on,  could  guarantee  nothing,  but  by  and 
by  when  the  lawyer's  opinion  had  been  discussed  at  great 
length  at  the  inn  and  in  all  the  cottages  in  the  village, 
it  was  found  that  several  of  Bawcombe's  friends  were 
willing  to  contribute  something  towards  a  guarantee 
fund,  and  eventually  the  sum  of  five  pounds  was  raised 
and  handed  over  to  the  person  who  had  seen  the  lawyer. 

His  first  step  was  to  send  for  Bawcombe,  who  had 
to  get  a  day  off  and  journey  in  the  carrier's  cart  one 
market-day  to  Salisbury.  The  result  was  that  action 
was  taken,  and  in  due  time  the  case  came  on.     Elijah 


304  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

Raven  was  in  court  with  two  or  three  of  his  friends — 
small  working  farmers  who  had  some  interested  motive 
in  desiring  to  appear  as  his  supporters.  He,  too,  had 
engaged  a  lawyer  to  conduct  his  case.  The  judge,  said 
Bawcombe,  who  had  never  seen  one  before,  was  a  tar- 
rible  stern-looking  old  man  in  his  wig.  The  plaintiff's 
lawyer  he  did  open  the  case  and  he  did  talk  and  talk  a  lot, 
but  Elijah's  counsel  he  did  keep  on  interrupting  him, 
and  they  two  argued  and  argued,  but  the  judge  he  never 
said  no  word,  only  he  looked  blacker  and  more  tarrible 
stern.  Then  when  the  talk  did  seem  all  over,  Bawcombe, 
ignorant  of  the  forms,  got  up  and  said,  "I  beg  your  lord- 
ship's pardon,  but  may  I  speak?"  He  didn't  rightly 
remember  afterwards  what  he  called  him,  but  'twere  your 
lordship  or  your  worship,  he  was  sure.  "Yes,  certainly, 
you  are  here  to  speak,"  said  the  judge,  and  Bawcombe 
then  gave  an  account  of  his  interview  with  Elijah  and  of 
the  conversation  outside  the  house. 

Then  up  rose  Elijah  Raven,  and  in  a  loud  voice  ex- 
claimed, "Lord,  Lord,  what  a  sad  thing  it  is  to  have 
to  sit  here  and  listen  to  this  man's  lies!" 

"Sit  down,  sir,"  thundered  the  judge;  "sit  down  and 
hold  your  tongue,  or  I  shall  have  you  removed." 

Then  Elijah's  lawyer  jumped  up,  and  the  judge  told 
him  he'd  better  sit  down  too  because  he  knowed  who  the 
liar  was  in  this  case.  "A  brutal  case !"  he  said,  and  that 
was  the  end,  and  Bawcombe  got  his  six  weeks'  sick  pay 
and  expenses,  and  about  three  pounds  besides,  being  his 
share  of  the  society's  funds  which  Elijah  had  been  ad- 
vised to  distribute  to  the  members. 

And  that  was  the  end  of  the  Winterbourne  Bishop 
club,  and  from  that  time  it  has  continued  without  one. 


CHAPTER   XXiy 
Isaac's  Children 

Isaac  Bawcombe's  family  —  The  youngest  son  —  Caleb 
goes  to  seek  David  at  Wilton  sheep-fair — Martha, 
the  eldest  daughter  —  Her  beauty  —  She  marries 
Shepherd  lerat — The  name  of  lerat — Story  of  Ellen 
lerat — The  lerats  go  to  Somerset — Martha  and  the 
lady  of  the  manor — Martha's  travels — Her  mistress 
dies  —  Return  to  Winterbourne  Bishop  —  Shepherd 
lerat's  end 


Caleb  was  one  of  five,  the  middle  one,  with  a  brother 
and  sister  older  and  a  brother  and  sister  younger  than 
himself — a  symmetrical  family.  I  have  already  written 
incidentally  of  the  elder  brother  and  the  youngest  sister, 
and  in  this  chapter  will  complete  the  history  of  Isaac's 
children  by  giving  an  account  of  the  eldest  sister  and 
youngest  brother. 

The  brother  was  David,  the  hot-tempered  young  shep- 
herd who  killed  his  dog  Monk,   and   who   afterwards 

305 


306  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

followed  his  brother  to  Warminster.  In  spite  of  his 
temper  and  "want  of  sense"  Caleb  was  deeply  attached 
to  him,  and  when  as  an  old  man  his  shepherding  days 
were  finished  he  followed  his  wife  to  their  new  home, 
he  grieved  at  being  so  far  removed  from  his  favourite 
brother.  For  some  time  he  managed  to  make  the  journey 
to  visit  him  once  a  year.  Not  to  his  home  near  War- 
minster, but  to  Wilton,  at  the  time  of  the  great  annual 
sheep-fair  held  on  12  September.  From  his  cottage  he 
would  go  by  the  carrier's  cart  to  the  nearest  town,  and 
thence  by  rail  with  one  or  two  changes  by  Salisbury  to 
Wilton. 

After  I  became  acquainted  with  Caleb  he  was  ill  and 
not  likely  to  recover,  and  for  over  two  years  could  not 
get  about.  During  all  this  time  he  spoke  often  to  me 
of  his  brother  and  wished  he  could  see  him.  I  won- 
dered why  he  did  not  write ;  but  he  would  not,  nor  would 
the  other.  These  people  of  the  older  generation  do  not 
write  to  each  other;  years  are  allowed  to  pass  without 
tidings,  and  they  wonder  and  wish  and  talk  of  this  and 
that  absent  member  of  the  family,  trusting  it  is  well  with 
them,  but  to  write  a  letter  never  enters  into  their  minds. 

At  last  Caleb  began  to  mend  and  determined  to  go 
again  to  Wilton  sheep  -  fair  to  look  for  his  beloved 
brother;  to  Warminster  he  could  not  go;  it  was  too  far. 
September  the  12th  saw  him  once  more  at  the  old  meet- 
ing-place, painfully  making  his  slow  way  to  that  part 
of  the  ground  where  Shepherd  David  Bawcombe  was 
accustomed  to  put  his  sheep.  But  he  was  not  there.  "I 
be  here  too  soon,"  said  Caleb,  and  sat  himself  patiently 
down  to  wait,  but  hours  passed  and  David  did  not  appear, 
so  he  got  up  and  made  his  way  about  the  fair  in  search 


ISAAC'S    CHILDREN  307 

of  him,  but  couldn't  find  'n.  Returning  to  the  old  spot 
he  got  into  conversation  with  two  young  shepherds  and 
told  them  he  was  waiting  for  his  brother  who  always 
put  his  sheep  in  that  part.  "What  be  his  name?"  they 
asked,  and  when  he  gave  it  they  looked  at  one  another 
and  were  silent.  Then  one  of  them  said,  "Be  you  Shep- 
herd Caleb  Bawcombe?"  and  when  he  had  answered  them 
the  other  said,  "You'll  not  see  your  brother  at  Wilton 
to-day.  We've  come  from  Doveton,  and  knew  he.  You'll 
not  see  your  brother  no  more.  He  be  dead  these  two 
years." 

Caleb  thanked  them  for  telling  him,  and  got  up  and 
went  his  way  very  quietly,  and  got  back  that  night  to 
his  cottage.  He  was  very  tired,  said  his  wife;  he 
wouldn't  eat  and  he  wouldn't  talk.  Many  days  passed 
and  he  still  sat  in  his  corner  and  brooded,  until  the  wife 
was  angry  and  said  she  never  knowed  a  man  make  so 
great  a  trouble  over  losing  a  brother.  'Twas  not  like 
losing  a  wife  or  a  son,  she  said;  but  he  answered  not 
a  word,  and  it  was  many  weeks  before  that  dreadful 
sadness  began  to  wear  off,  and  he  could  talk  cheerfully 
once  more  of  his  old  life  in  the  village. 

Of  the  sister,  Martha,  there  is  much  more  to  say;  her 
life  was  an  eventful  one  as  lives  go  in  this  quiet  down- 
land  country,  and  she  was,  moreover,  distinguished  above 
the  others  of  the  family  by  her  beauty  and  vivacity.  I 
only  knew  her  when  her  age  was  over  80,  in  her  native 
village  where  her  life  ended  some  time  ago,  but  even  at 
that  age  there  was  something  of  her  beauty  left  and  a 
good  deal  of  her  charm.  She  had  a  good  figure  still 
and  was  of  a  good  height ;  and  had  dark  fine  eyes,  clear, 
dark,   unwrinkled   skin,   a  finely   shaped   face,   and  her 


308  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

grey  hair  once  black  was  very  abundant.  Her  manner, 
too,  was  very  engaging.  At  the  age  of  25  she  married 
a  shepherd  named  Thomas  lerat — a  surname  I  had  not 
heard  before  and  which  made  me  wonder  where  were 
the  lerats  in  Wiltshire  that  in  all  my  rambles  among  the 
downland  villages  I  had  never  come  across  them,  not  even 
in  the  churchyards.  Nobody  knew — there  were  no  lerats 
except  Martha  lerat,  the  widow,  of  Winterbourne  Bishop 
and  her  son — nobody  had  ever  heard  of  any  other  family 
of  the  name.  I  began  to  doubt  that  there  ever  had  been 
such  a  name  until  quite  recently  when,  on  going  over 
an  old  downland  village  church,  the  rector  took  me  out 
to  show  me  "a  strange  name"  on  a  tablet  let  into  the 
wall  of  the  building  outside.  The  name  was  lerat  and 
the  date  the  seventeenth  century.  He  had  never  seen 
the  name  excepting  on  that  tablet.  Who,  then,  was 
Martha's  husband?  It  was  a  queer  story  which  she 
would  never  have  told  me,  but  I  had  it  from  her  brother 
and  his  wife. 

A  generation  before  that  of  Martha,  at  a  farm  in 
the  village  of  Bower  Chalk  on  the  Ebble,  there  was  a 
girl  named  Ellen  lerat  employed  as  a  dairymaid.  She 
was  not  a  native  of  the  village,  and  if  her  parentage  and 
place  of  birth  were  ever  known  they  have  long  passed 
out  of  memory.  She  was  a  good-looking,  nice-tempered 
girl,  and  was  much  liked  by  her  master  and  mistress, 
so  that  after  she  had  been  about  two  years  in  their  service 
it  came  as  a  great  shock  to  find  that  she  was  in  the  family 
way.  The  shock  was  all  the  greater  when  the  fresh  dis- 
covery was  made  one  day  that  another  unmarried  woman 
in  the  house,  who  was  also  a  valued  servant,  was  in  the 
same   condition.     The   two   unhappy   women  had  kept 


ISAAC'S    CHILDREN  309 

their  secret  from  every  one  except  from  each  other  until 
it  could  be  kept  no  longer,  and  they  consulted  together 
and  determined  to  confess  it  to  their  mistress  and  abide 
the  consequences. 

Who  were  the  men?  was  the  first  question  asked. 
There  was  only  one — Robert  Coombe,  the  shepherd, 
who  lived  at  the  farm-house,  a  slow,  silent,  almost  in- 
articulate man,  with  a  round  head  and  flaxen  hair;  a 
bachelor  of  whom  people  were  accustomed  to  say  that 
he  would  never  marry  because  no  woman  would  have 
such  a  stolid,  dull-witted  fellow  for  a  husband.  But  he 
was  a  good  shepherd  and  had  been  many  years  on  the 
farm,  and  it  was  altogether  a  terrible  business.  Forth- 
with the  farmer  got  out  his  horse  and  rode  to  the  downs 
to  have  it  out  with  the  unconscionable  wretch  who  had 
brought  that  shame  and  trouble  on  them.  He  found 
him  sitting  on  the  turf  eating  his  midday  bread  and  bacon, 
Avith  a  can  of  cold  tea  at  his  side,  and  getting  off  his 
horse  he  went  up  to  him  and  damned  him  for  a  scoundrel 
and  abused  him  until  he  had  no  words  left,  then  told  his 
shepherd  that  he  must  choose  between  the  two  women 
and  marry  at  once,  so  as  to  make  an  honest  woman  of 
one  of  the  two  poor  fools;  either  he  must  do  that  or 
quit  the  farm  forthwith. 

Coombe  heard  in  silence  and  without  a  change  In  his 
countenance,  masticating  his  food  the  while  and  washing 
it  down  with  an  occasional  draught  from  his  can,  until 
he  had  finished  his  meal;  then  taking  his  crook  he  got 
up,  and  remarking  that  he  would  "think  of  it"  went  after 
his  flock. 

The  farmer  rode  back  cursing  him  for  a  clod ;  and  in 
the  evening  Coombe,  after  folding  his  flock,  came  in  to 


310  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

give  his  decision,  and  said  he  had  thought  of  it  and 
would  take  Jane  to  wife.  She  was  a  good  deal  older 
than  Ellen  and  not  so  good-looking,  but  she  belonged 
to  the  village  and  her  people  were  there,  and  everybody 
knowed  who  Jane  was,  an'  she  was  an  old  servant  an' 
would  be  wanted  on  the  farm.  Ellen  was  a  stranger 
among  them,  and  being  only  a  dairymaid  was  of  less 
account  than  the  other  one. 

So  it  was  settled,  and  on  the  following  morning  Ellen, 
the  rejected,  was  told  to  take  up  her  traps  and  walk. 

What  was  she  to  do  in  her  condition,  no  longer  to 
be  concealed,  alone  and  friendless  in  the  world?  She 
thought  of  Mrs.  Poole,  an  elderly  woman  of  Winter- 
bourne  Bishop,  whose  children  were  grown  up  and  away 
from  home,  who  when  staying  at  Bower  Chalk  some 
months  before  had  taken  a  great  liking  for  Ellen,  and 
when  parting  with  her  had  kissed  her  and  said:  "My 
dear,  I  lived  among  strangers  too  when  I  were  a  girl 
and  had  no  one  of  my  own,  and  know  what  'tis."  That 
was  all;  but  there  was  nobody  else,  and  she  resolved  to 
go  to  Mrs.  Poole,  and  so  laden  with  her  few. belongings 
she  set  out  to  walk  the  long  miles  over  the  downs  to 
Winterbourne  Bishop  where  she  had  never  been.  It  was 
far  to  walk  in  hot  August  weather  when  she  went  that 
sad  journey,  and  she  rested  at  intervals  in  the  hot  shade 
of  a  furze-bush,  haunted  all  day  by  the  miserable  fear 
that  the  woman  she  sought,  of  whom  she  knew  so  little, 
would  probably  harden  her  heart  and  close  her  door 
against  her.  But  the  good  woman  took  compassion  on 
her  and  gave  her  shelter  in  her  poor  cottage,  and  kept 
her  till  her  child  was  born,  in  spite  of  all  the  women's 
bitter  tongues.    And  in  the  village  where  she  had  found 


ISAAC'S    CHILDREN  311 

refuge  she  remained  to  the  end  of  her  life,  without  a 
home  of  her  own,  but  always  in  a  room  or  two  with 
her  boy  in  some  poor  person's  cottage.  Her  life  was 
hard  but  not  unpeaceful,  and  the  old  people,  all  dead  and 
gone  now,  remembered  Ellen  as  a  very  quiet,  staid  woman 
who  worked  hard  for  a  living,  sometimes  at  the  wash-tub, 
but  mostly  in  the  fields,  haymaking  and  harvesting  and 
at  other  times  weeding,  or  collecting  flints,  or  with  a 
spud  or  sickle  extirpating  thistles  in  the  pasture-land. 
She  worked  alone  or  with  other  poor  women,  but  with 
the  men  she  had  no  friendships;  the  sharpest  women's 
eyes  in  the  village  could  see  no  fault  in  her  in  this  respect; 
if  it  had  not  been  so,  if  she  had  talked  pleasantly  with 
them  and  smiled  when  addressed  by  them,  her  life  would 
have  been  made  a  burden  to  her.  She  would  have  been 
often  asked  who  her  brat's  father  was.  The  dreadful 
experience  of  that  day,  when  she  had  been  cast  out  and 
was  alone  in  the  world,  when,  burdened  with  her  unborn 
child,  she  had  walked  over  the  downs  in  the  hot  August 
weather,  m  anguish  of  apprehension,  had  sunk  into  her 
soul.  Her  very  nature  was  changed,  and  in  a  man's 
presence  her  blood  seemed  frozen,  and  if  spoken  to  she 
answered  in  monosyllables  with  her  eyes  on  the  earth. 
This  was  noted,  with  the  result  that  all  the  village  women 
were  her  good  friends;  they  never  reminded  her  of  her 
fall,  and  when  she  died  still  young  they  grieved  for  her 
and  befriended  the  little  orphan  boy  she  had  left  on  their 
hands. 

He  was  then  about  11  years  old,  and  was  a  stout 
little  fellow  with  a  round  head  and  flaxen  hair  like  his 
father ;  but  he  was  not  so  stolid  and  not  like  him  in  char- 
acter; at  all  events  his  old  widow  in  speaking  of  him 


312 


A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 


to  me  said  that  never  in  all  his  life  did  he  do  one  unkind 
or  unjust  thing.  He  came  from  a  long  line  of  shepherds, 
and  shepherding  was  perhaps  almost  instinctive  in  him; 
from  his  earliest  boyhood  the  tremulous  bleating  of  the 
sheep  and  half-muffled  clink  of  the  copper  bells  and  the 
sharp  bark  of  the  sheep-dog  had  a  strange  attraction  for 


TOEHEAD 
SHEPHERD 


b.ca 


him.  He  was  always  ready  when  a  boy  was  wanted  to 
take  charge  of  a  flock  during  a  temporary  absence  of  the 
shepherd,  and  eventually  when  only  about  15  he  was 
engaged  as  under-shepherd,  and  for  the  rest  of  his  life 
shepherding  was  his  trade. 

His  marriage  to  Martha  Bawcombe  came  as  a  surprise 
to  the  village,  for  though  no  one  had  any  fault  to  find 
with  Tommy  lerat  there  was  a  slur  on  him,  and  Martha, 
who  was  the  finest  girl  in  the  place,  might,  it  was  thought, 


ISAAC'S    CHILDREN  313 

have  looked  for  some  one  better.  But  Martha  had  always 
liked  Tommy;  they  were  of  the  same  age  and  had  been 
playmates  in  their  childhood;  growing  up  together  their 
childish  affection  had  turned  to  love,  and  after  they 
had  waited  some  years  and  Tommy  had  a  cottage  and 
seven  shillings  a  week,  Isaac  and  his  wife  gave  their 
consent  and  they  were  married.  Still  they  felt  hurt  at 
being  discussed  in  this  way  by  the  villagers,  so  that  when 
lerat  was  offered  a  place  as  shepherd  at  a  distance  from 
home,  where  his  family  history  was  not  known,  he  was 
glad  to  take  it  and  his  wife  to  go  with  him,  about  a  month 
after  her  child  was  born. 

The  new  place  was  in  Somerset,  thirty-five  to  forty 
miles  from  their  native  village,  and  lerat  as  shepherd 
at  the  manor-house  farm  on  a  large  estate  would  have 
better  wages  than  he  had  ever  had  before  and  a  nice 
cottage  to  live  in,  Martha  was  delighted  with  her  new 
home — the  cottage,  the  entire  village,  the  great  park 
and  mansion  close  by,  all  made  it  seem  like  paradise  to 
her.  Better  than  everything  was  the  pleasant  welcome 
she  received  from  the  villagers,  who  looked  in  to  make 
her  acquaintance  and  seemed  very  much  taken  with  her 
appearance  and  nice,  friendly  manner.  They  were  all 
eager  to  tell  her  about  the  squire  and  his  lady,  who  were 
young,  and  of  how  great  an  interest  they  took  in  their 
people  and  how  much  they  did  for  them  and  how  they 
were  loved  by  everybody  on  the  estate. 

It  happens,  oddly  enough,  that  I  became  acquainted 
with  this  same  man,  the  squire,  over  fifty  years  after 
the  events  I  am  relating,  when  he  was  past  80.  This 
acquaintance  came  about  by  means  of  a  letter  he  wrote 
me  in  reference  to  the  habits  of  a  bird  or  some  such 


314  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

small  matter,  a  way  in  which  I  have  become  acquainted 
with  scores — perhaps  I  should  say  hundreds — of  persons 
in  many  parts  of  the  country.  He  was  a  very  fine  man, 
the  head  of  an  old  and  distinguished  county  family;  an 
ideal  squire,  and  one  of  the  few  large  landowners  I  have 
had  the  happiness  to  meet  who  was  not  devoted  to  that 
utterly  selfish  and  degraded  form  of  sport  which  consists 
in  the  annual  rearing  and  subsequent  slaughter  of  a  host 
of  pheasants. 

Now  when  Martha  was  entertaining  half  a  dozen  of 
her  new  neighbours  who  had  come  in  to  see  her,  and 
exhibited  her  baby  to  them  and  then  proceeded  to  suckle 
it,  they  looked  at  one  another  and  laughed,  and  one 
said,  "Just  you  wait  till  the  lady  at  the  mansion  sees  'ee 
— she'll  soon  want  'ee  to  nurse  her  little  one." 

What  did  they  mean?  They  told  her  that  the  great 
lady  was  a  mother  too,  and  had  a  little  sickly  baby  and 
wanted  a  nurse  for  it,  but  couldn't  find  a  woman  to 
please  her. 

Martha  fired  up  at  that.  Did  they  imagine,  she  asked, 
that  any  great  lady  in  the  world  with  all  her  gold  could 
tempt  her  to  leave  her  own  darling  to  nurse  another 
woman's!  She  would  not  do  such  a  thing — she  would 
rather  leave  the  place  than  submit  to  it.  But  she  didn't 
believe  it — they  had  only  said  that  to  tease  and  frighten 
her! 

They  laughed  again,  looking  admiringly  at  her  as  she 
stood  before  them  with  sparkling  eyes,  flushed  cheeks, 
and  fine  full  bust,  and  only  answered,  "Just  you  wait, 
my  dear,  till  she  sees  'ee." 

And  very  soon  the  lady  did  see  her.  The  people  at 
the  manor  were  strict  in  their  religious  observances,  and 


ISAAC'S    CHILDREN  315 

it  had  been  impressed  on  Martha  that  she  had  better 
attend  at  morning  service  on  her  first  Sunday,  and  a 
girl  was  found  by  one  of  her  neighbours  to  look  after 
the  baby  in  the  meantime.  And  so  when  Sunday  came 
she  dressed  herself  in  her  best  clothes  and  went  to  church 
with  the  others.  The  service  over,  the  squire  and  his 
wife  came  out  first  and  were  standing  in  the  path  ex- 
changing greetings  with  their  friends ;  then  as  the  others 
came  out  with  Martha  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  the  lady 
turned  and  fixed  her  eyes  on  her,  and  suddenly  stepping 
out  from  the  group  she  stopped  Martha  and  said,  "Who 
are  you? — I  don't  remember  your  face." 

"No,  ma'am,"  said  Martha,  blushing  and  curtsying. 
"I  be  the  new  shepherd's  wife  at  the  manor-house  farm 
— we've  only  been  here  a  few  days." 

The  other  then  said  she  had  heard  of  her  and  that 
she  was  nursing  her  child,  and  she  then  told  Martha  to 
go  to  the  mansion  that  afternoon  as  she  had  something 
to  say  to  her. 

The  poor  young  mother  went  in  fear  and  trembling, 
trying  to  stiffen  herself  against  the  expected  blandish- 
ments. 

Then  followed  the  fateful  interview.  The  lady  was 
satisfied  that  she  had  got  hold  of  the  right  person  at 
last — the  one  in  the  world  who  would  be  able  to  save  her 
precious  little  one  "from  to  die,"  the  poor  pining  infant 
on  whose  frail  little  life  so  much  depended !  She  would 
feed  it  from  her  full,  healthy  breasts  and  give  it  some- 
thing of  her  own  abounding,  splendid  life.  Martha's 
own  baby  would  do  very  well — there  w^as  nothing  the 
matter  with  it,  and  it  would  flourish  on  "the  bottle"  or 
anything  else,  no  matter  what.     All  she  had  to  do  was 


316  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

to  go  back  to  her  cottage  and  make  the  necessary  arrange- 
ments, then  come  to  stay  at  the  mansion. 

Martha  refused,  and  the  other  smiled;  then  Martha 
pleaded  and  cried  and  said  she  would  never  never  leave 
her  own  child,  and  as  all  that  had  no  effect  she  was 
angry,  and  it  came  into  her  mind  that  if  the  lady  would 
get  angry  too  she  would  be  ordered  out  and  all  would 
be  over.  But  the  lady  wouldn't  get  angry,  for  when 
Martha  stormed  she  grew  more  gentle  and  spoke  tenderly 
and  sweetly,  but  would  still  have  it  her  own  way,  until 
the  poor  young  mother  could  stand  it  no  longer,  and  so 
rushed  away  in  a  great  state  of  agitation  to  tell  her  hus- 
band and  ask  him  to  help  her  against  her  enemy.  But 
Tommy  took  the  lady's  side,  and  his  young  wife  hated 
him  for  it,  and  was  in  despair  and  ready  to  snatch  up 
her  child  and  run  away  from  them  all,  when  all  at  once 
a  carriage  appeared  at  the  cottage,  and  the  great  lady 
herself,  followed  by  a  nurse  with  the  sickly  baby  in  her 
arms,  came  in.  She  had  come,  she  said  very  gently, 
almost  pleadingly,  to  ask  Martha  to  feed  her  child  once, 
and  Martha  was  flattered  and  pleased  at  the  request,  and 
took  and  fondled  the  infant  in  her  arms,  then  gave  it 
suck  at  her  beautiful  breast.  And  when  she  had  fed  the 
child,  acting  very  tenderly  towards  it  like  a  mother,  her 
visitor  suddenly  burst  into  tears,  and  taking  Martha  in 
her  arms  she  kissed  her  and  pleaded  with  her  again  until 
she  could  resist  no  more ;  and  it  was  settled  that  she  was 
to  live  at  the  mansion  and  come  once  every  day  to  the 
village  to  feed  her  own  child  from  the  breast. 

Martha's  connexion  with  the  people  at  the  mansion 
did  not  end  when  she  had  safely  reared  the  sickly  child. 
The  lady  had  become  attached  to  her  and  wanted  to  have 


ISAAC'S    CHILDREN  317. 

her  always,  although  Martha  could  not  act  again  as  wet 
nurse,  for  she  had  no  more  children  herself.  And  by 
and  by  when  her  mistress  lost  her  health  after  the  birth 
of  a  third  child  and  was  ordered  abroad,  she  took  Martha 
with  her,  and  she  passed  a  whole  year  with  her  on  the 
Continent,  residing  in  France  and  Italy.  They  came 
home  again,  but  as  the  lady  continued  to  decline  in  health 
she  travelled  again,  still  taking  Martha  with  her,  and 
they  visited  India  and  other  distant  countries,  including 
the  Holy  Land;  but  travel  and  wealth  and  all  that  the 
greatest  physicians  in  the  world  could  do  for  her,  and 
the  tender  care  of  a  husband  who  worshipped  her,  availed 
not,  and  she  came  home  in  the  end  to  die;  and  Martha 
went  back  to  her  Tommy  and  the  boy,  to  be  separated 
no  more  while  their  lives  lasted. 

The  great  house  was  shut  up  and  remained  so  for 
years.  The  squire  was  the  last  man  in  England  to  shirk 
his  duties  as  landlord  and  to  his  people  whom  he  loved, 
and  who  loved  him  as  few  great  landowners  are  loved 
in  England,  but  his  grief  was  too  great  for  even  his 
great  strength  to  bear  up  against,  and  it  was  long  feared 
by  his  friends  that  he  would  never  recover  from  his  loss. 
But  he  was  healed  in  time,  and  ten  years  later  married 
again  and  returned  to  his  home,  to  live  there  until  nigh 
upon  his  ninetieth  year.  Long  before  this  the  lerats  had 
returned  to  their  native  village.  When  I  last  saw  Martha, 
then  in  her  eighty-second  year,  she  gave  me  the  follow- 
ing account  of  her  Tommy's  end. 

He  continued  shepherding  up  to  the  age  of  78.  One 
Sunday,  early  in  the  afternoon,  when  she  was  ill  with 
an  attack  of  influenza,  he  came  home,  and  putting  aside 
his  crook  said,  "I've  done  work." 


318  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

"It's  early,"  she  replied,  "but  maybe  you  got  the  boy 
to  mind  the  sheep  for  you." 

"I  don't  mean  I've  done  work  for  the  day,"  he  returned. 
"I've  done  for  good — I'll  not  go  with  the  flock  no  more." 

"What  be  saying?"  she  cried  in  sudden  alarm.  "Be 
you  feeling  bad — what  be  the  matter?" 

"No,  I'm  not  bad,"  he  said.  "I'm  perfectly  well,  but 
I've  done  work ;"  and  more  than  that  he  would  not  say. 

She  watched  him  anxiously  but  could  see  nothing 
wrong  with  him;  his  appetite  was  good,  he  smoked  his 
pipe,  and  was  cheerful. 

Three  days  later  she  noticed  that  he  had  some  difficulty 
in  pulling  on  a  stocking  when  dressing  in  the  morning, 
and  went  to  his  assistance.  He  laughed  and  said,  "Here's 
a  funny  thing !  You  be  ill  and  I  be  well,  and  you've  got 
to  help  me  put  on  a  stocking !"  and  he  laughed  again. 

After  dinner  that  day  he  said  he  wanted  a  drink  and 
would  have  a  glass  of  beer.  There  was  no  beer  in  the 
house,  and  she  asked  him  if  he  would  have  a  cup  of  tea. 

"Oh,  yes,  that'll  do  very  well,"  he  said,  and  she  made 
it  for  him. 

After  drinking  his  cup  of  tea  he  got  a  footstool,  and 
placing  it  at  her  feet  sat  down  on  it  and  rested  his  head 
on  her  knees;  he  remained  a  long  time  in  this  position 
so  perfectly  still  that  she  at  length  bent  over  and  felt 
and  examined  his  face,  only  to  discover  that  he  was 
dead. 

And  that  was  the  end  of  Tommy  lerat,  the  son  of 
Ellen.  He  died,  she  said,  like  a  baby  that  has  been  fed 
and  falls  asleep  on  its  mother's  breast. 


CHAPTER   XXV 


Living  in  the  Past 

Evening  talks — On  the  construction  of  sheep-folds — 
Making  hurdles — Devil's  guts — Character  in  sheep- 
dogs— Sally,  the  spiteful  dog — Dyke,  the  lost  dog 
who  returned — Strange  recovery  of  a  lost  dog — Bad- 
ger, the  playful  dog — Badger  shepherds  the  fowls— 
A  ghost  story — A  Sunday-evening  talk — Parsons  and 
ministers — Noisy  religion — The  shepherd's  love  of 
his  calling — Mark  Dick  and  the  giddy  sheep — Con- 
clusion 

During  our  frequent  evening  talks,  often  continued  till 
a  late  hour,  it  was  borne  in  on  Caleb  Bawcombe  that  his 
anecdotes  of  wild  creatures  interested  me  more  than 
anything  else  he  had  to  tell ;  but  in  spite  of  this,  or  because 
he  could  not  always  bear  it  in  mind,  the  conversation 
almost  invariably  drifted  back  to  the  old  subject  of 
sheep,  of  which  he  was  never  tired.     Even  in  his  sleep 

319 


320  A   SHEPHERD'S   LIFE 

he  does  not  forget  them ;  his  dreams,  he  says,  are  always 
about  sheep;  he  is  with  the  flock,  shifting  the  hurdles, 
or  following  it  out  on  the  down.  A  troubled  dream, 
when  he  is  ill  or  uneasy  in  his  sleep  is  invariably  about 
some  difficulty  with  the  flock;  it  gets  out  of  his  control, 
and  the  dog  cannot  understand  him  or  refuses  to  obey 
when  everything  depends  on  his  instant  action.  The 
subject  was  so  much  to  him,  so  important  above  all  others, 
that  he  would  not  spare  the  listener  even  the  minutest 
details  of  the  shepherd's  life  and  work.  His  "hints  on 
the  construction  of  sheep-folds"  would  have  filled  a 
volume;  and  if  any  farmer  had  purchased  the  book  he 
would  not  have  found  the  title  a  misleading  one  and  that 
he  had  been  defrauded  of  his  money.  But  with  his 
singular  fawnlike  face  and  clear  eyes  on  his  listener  it 
was  impossible  to  fall  asleep,  or  even  to  let  the  attention 
wander;  and  incidentally  even  in  his  driest  discourse 
there  were  little  bright  touches  which  one  would  not 
willingly  have  missed. 

About  hurdles  he  explained  that  it  was  common  for 
the  downland  shepherds  to  repair  the  broken  and  worn- 
out  ones  with  the  long  woody  stems  of  the  bithy-wind 
from  the  hedges;  and  when  I  asked  what  the  plant  was 
he  described  the  wild  clematis  or  traveller's-joy;  but 
those  names  he  did  not  know — to  him  the  plant  had 
always  been  known  as  bithyzvind  or  else  Devil's  guts. 
It  struck  me  that  bithywind  might  have  come  by  the 
transposition  of  two  letters  from  withybind,  as  if  one 
should  say  flutterby  for  butterfly,  or  flagondry  for  drag- 
onfly. Withybind  is  one  of  the  numerous  vernacular 
names  of  the  common  convolvulus.  Lilybind  is  another. 
But  what  would  old  Gerarde,  who  invented  the  pretty 


LIVING    IN    THE    PAST  321 

name  of  traveller's-joy  for  that  ornament  of  the  wayside 
hedges,  have  said  to  such  a  name  as  Devil's  guts? 

There  was,  said  Caleb,  an  old  farmer  in  the  parish 
of  Bishop  who  had  a  peculiar  fondness  for  this  plant, 
and  if  a  shepherd  pulled  any  of  it  out  of  one  of  his 
hedges  after  leafing-time  he  would  be  very  much  put  out ; 
he  would  shout  at  him,  "J^^t  you  leave  my  Devil's  guts 
alone  or  I'll  not  keep  you  on  the  farm."  And  the  shep- 
herds in  revenge  gave  him  the  unpleasant  nickname  of 
"Old  Devil's  Guts,"  by  which  he  was  known  in  that  part 
of  the  country. 

As  a  rule,  talk  about  sheep,  or  any  subject  connected 
with  sheep,  would  suggest  something  about  sheep-dogs 
— individual  dogs  he  had  known  or  possessed,  and  who 
always  had  their  own  character  and  peculiarities,  like 
human  beings.  They  were  good  and  bad  and  indifferent ; 
a  really  bad  dog  was  a  rarity;  but  a  fairly  good  dog 
might  have  some  trick  or  vice  or  weakness.  There  was 
Sally,  for  example,  a  stump-tail  bitch,  as  good  a  dog 
with  sheep  as  he  ever  possessed,  but  you  had  to  consider 
her  feelings.  She  would  keenly  resent  any  injustice  from 
her  master.  If  he  spoke  too  sharply  to  her,  or  rebuked 
her  unnecessarily  for  going  a  little  out  of  her  way  just 
to  smell  at  a  rabbit  burrow,  she  would  nurse  her  anger 
until  an  opportunity  came  of  inflicting  a  bite  on  some 
erring  sheep.  Punishing  her  would  have  made  matters 
worse:  the  only  way  was  to  treat  her  as  a  reasonable 
being  and  never  to  speak  to  her  as  a  dog  —  a  mere 
slave. 

Dyke  was  another  dog  he  remembered  well.  He  be- 
longed to  old  Shepherd  Matthew  Titt,  who  was  head- 
shepherd  at  a  farm  near  Warminster,  adjacent  to  the 


Zll  A    SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

one  where  Caleb  worked.  Old  Mat  and  his  wife  lived 
alone  in  their  cottage  out  of  the  village,  all  their  children 
having  long  grown  up  and  gone  away  to  a  distance  from 
home,  and  being  so  lonely  "by  their  two  selves"  they 
loved  their  dog  just  as  others  love  their  relations.  But 
Dyke  deserved  it,  for  he  was  a  very  good  dog.  One  year 
Mat  was  sent  by  his  master  with  lambs  to  Weyhill,  the 
little  village  near  Andover,  where  a  great  sheep-fair  is 
held  in  October  every  year.  It  was  distant  over  thirty 
miles,  but  Mat  though  old  was  a  strong  man  still  and 
greatly  trusted  by  his  master.  From  this  journey  he 
returned  with  a  bad  heart,  for  he  had  lost  Dyke,  He 
had  disappeared  one  night  while  they  were  at  Weyhill. 
Old  Mrs.  Titt  cried  for  him  as  she  would  have  cried  for 
a  lost  son,  and  for  many  a  long  day  they  went  about 
with  heavy  hearts. 

Just  a  year  had  gone  by  when  one  night  the  old  woman 
was  roused  from  sleep  by  loud  knocks  on  the  window- 
pane  of  the  living-room  below.  "Mat !  Mat !"  she  cried, 
shaking  him  vigorously,  "wake  up — old  Dyke  has  come 
back  to  us!"  "What  be  you  talking  about?"  growled 
the  old  shepherd.  "Lie  down  and  go  to  sleep — you've 
been  dreaming."  "  'Tain't  no  dream;  'tis  Dyke — I  know 
his  knock,"  she  cried,  and  getting  up  she  opened  the 
window  and  put  her  head  well  out,  and  there  sure  enough 
was  Dyke,  standing  up  against  the  wall  and  gazing  up 
at  her,  and  knocking  with  his  paw  against  the  window 
below. 

Then  Mat  jumped  up,  and  going  together  downstairs 
they  unbarred  the  door  and  embraced  the  dog  with  joy, 
and  the  rest  of  the  night  was  spent  in  feeding  and  caress- 
ing him,  and  asking  him  a  hundred  questions,  which  he 


LIVING    IN    THE    PAST  323 

could  only  answer  by  licking  their  hands  and  wagging 
his  tail. 

It  was  supposed  that  he  had  been  stolen  at  the  fair, 
probably  by  one  of  the  wild,  little,  lawless  men  called 
"general  dealers,"  who  go  flying  about  the  country  in 
a  trap  drawn  by  a  fast-trotting  pony,  that  he  had  been 
thrown,  muffled  up,  into  the  cart  and  carried  many  a 
mile  away,  and  sold  to  some  shepherd,  and  that  he  had 
lost  his  sense  of  direction.  But  after  serving  a  stranger 
a  full  year  he  had  been  taken  with  sheep  to  Weyhill 
Fair  once  more,  and  once  there  he  knew  where  he  was, 
and  had  remembered  the  road  leading  to  his  old  home 
and  master,  and  making  his  escape  had  travelled  the  thirty 
long  miles  back  to  Warminster. 

The  account  of  Dyke's  return  reminded  me  of  an 
equally  good  story  of  the  recovery  of  a  lost  dog  which 
I  heard  from  a  shepherd  on  the  Avon.  He  had  been 
lost  over  a  year,  when  one  day  the  shepherd,  being  out 
on  the  down  with  his  flock,  stood  watching  two  drovers 
travelling  with  a  flock  on  the  turnpike  road  below,  nearly 
a  mile  away,  and  by  and  by  .hearing  one  of  their  dogs 
bark  he  knew  at  that  distance  that  it  was  his  dog.  "I 
haven't  a  doubt,"  he  said  to  himself,  "and  if  I  know  his 
bark  he'll  know  my  whistle."  With  that  he  thrust  two 
fingers  in  his  mouth  and  blew  his  shrillest  and  longest 
whistle,  then  waited  the  result.  Presently  he  spied  a 
dog,  still  at  a  great  distance,  coming  swiftly  towards 
him;  it  was  his  own  dog,  mad  with  joy  at  finding  his 
old  master. 

Did  ever  two  friends,  long  sundered  by  unhappy  chance, 
recognize  each  other's  voices  at  such  a  distance  and  so 
come  together  once  more! 


324  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

Whether  the  drovers  had  seen  him  desert  them  or 
not,  they  did  not  follow  to  recover  him,  nor  did  the 
shepherd  go  to  them  to  find  out  how  they  had  got  pos- 
session of  him;  it  was  enough  that  he  had  got  his  dog 
back. 

No  doubt  in  this  case  the  dog  had  recognized  his  old 
home  when  taken  by  it,  but  he  was  in  another  man's 
hands  now,  and  the  habits  and  discipline  of  a  life  made 
it  impossible  for  him  to  desert  until  that  old,  familiar 
and  imperative  call  reached  his  ears  and  he  could  not 
disobey. 

Then  (to  go  on  with  Caleb's  reminiscences)  there  was 
Badger,  owned  by  a  farmer  and  worked  for  some  years 
by  Caleb — the  very  best  stump-tail  he  ever  had  to  help 
him.  This  dog  differed  from  others  in  his  vivacious 
temper  and  ceaseless  activity.  When  the  sheep  were 
feeding  quietly  and  there  was  little  or  nothing  to  do 
for  hours  at  a  time,  he  would  not  lie  down  and  go  to 
sleep  like  any  other  sheep-dog,  but  would  spend  his  vacant 
time  "amusing  of  hisself"  on  some  smooth  slope  where 
he  could  roll  over  and  over ;  then  run  back  and  roll  over 
again  and  again,  playing  by  himself  just  like  a  child. 
Or  he  would  chase  a  butterfly  or  scamper  about  over  the 
down  hunting  for  large  white  flints,  which  he  would 
bring  one  by  one  and  deposit  them  at  his  master's  feet, 
pretending  they  were  something  of  value  and  greatly 
enjoying  the  game.  This  dog,  Caleb  said,  would  make 
him  laugh  every  day  with  his  games  and  capers. 

When  Badger  got  old  his  sight  and  hearing  failed; 
yet  when  he  was  very  nearly  blind  and  so  deaf  that  he 
could  not  hear  a  word  of  command,  even  when  it  was 
shouted  out  quite  close  to  him,  he  was  still  kept  with  the 


LIVING   IN   THE   PAST  325 

flock  because  he  was  so  intelligent  and  willing.  But  he 
was  too  old  at  last ;  it  was  time  for  him  to  be  put  out  of 
the  way.  The  farmer,  however,  who  owned  him,  would 
not  consent  to  have  him  shot,  and  so  the  wistful  old 
dog  was  ordered  to  keep  at  home  at  the  farm-house. 
Still  he  refused  to  be  superannuated,  and  not  allowed  to 
go  to  the  flock  he  took  to  shepherding  the  fowls.  In 
the  morning  he  would  drive  them  out  to  their  run  and 
keep  them  there  in  a  flock,  going  round  and  round  them 
by  the  hour,  and  furiously  hunting  back  the  poor  hens 
that  tried  to  steal  off  to  lay  their  eggs  in  some  secret 
place.  This  could  not  be  allowed,  and  so  poor  old  Badger, 
who  would  have  been  too  miserable  if  tied  up,  had  to 
be  shot  after  all. 

These  were  always  his  best  stories — his  recollections 
of  sheep-dogs,  for  of  all  creatures,  sheep  alone  excepted, 
he  knew  and  loved  them  best.  Yet  for  one  whose  life 
had  been  spent  in  that  small  isolated  village  and  on  the 
bare  down  about  it,  his  range  was  pretty  wide,  and  it 
even  included  one  memory  of  a  visitor  from  the  other 
world.     Let  him  tell  it  in  his  own  words. 

"Many  say  they  don't  believe  there  be  such  things 
as  ghosties.  They  niver  see'd  'n.  An'  I  don't  say  I 
believe  or  disbelieve  what  I  hear  tell.  I  warn't  there  to 
see.  I  only  know  what  I  see'd  myself:  but  I  don't  say 
that  it  were  a  ghostie  or  that  it  wasn't  one.  I  was  com- 
ing home  late  one  night  from  the  sheep;  'twere  close 
on  'leven  o'clock,  a  very  quiet  night,  with  moon  sheen 
that  made  it  a'most  like  day.  Near  th'  end  of  the  village 
I  come  to  the  stepping-stones,  as  we  call  'n,  where  there 
be  a  gate  and  the  road,  an'  just  by  the  road  the  four 
big  white  stones  for  people  going  from  the  village  to 


326  A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 

the  copse  an'  the  down  on  t'other  side  to  step  over  the 
water.  In  winter  'twas  a  stream  there,  but  the  water 
it  dried  in  summer,  and  now  'twere  summer-time  and 
there  wur  no  water.  When  I  git  there  I  see'd  two 
women,  both  on  'em  tall,  with  black  gowns  on,  an'  big 
bonnets  they  used  to  wear;  an'  they  were  standing  face 
to  face  so  close  that  the  tops  o'  their  bonnets  wur  a'most 
touching  together.  Who  be  these  women  out  so  late? 
says  I  to  myself.  Why,  says  I,  they  be  Mrs.  Durk  from 
up  the  village  an'  Mrs.  Gaarge  Durk,  the  keeper's  wife 
down  by  the  copse.  Then  I  thought  I  know'd  how 
'twas:  Mrs.  Gaarge,  she'd  a  been  to  see  Mrs.  Durk  in 
the  village,  and  Mrs.  Durk  she  were  coming  out  a  leetel 
way  with  her,  so  far  as  the  stepping-stones,  and  they 
wur  just  having  a  last  leetel  talk  before  saying  Good 
night.  But  mind,  I  hear'd  no  talking  when  I  passed  'n. 
An'  I'd  hardly  got  past  'n  before  I  says,  Why,  what 
a  fool  be  I !  Mrs.  Durk  she  be  dead  a  twelvemonth, 
an'  I  were  in  the  churchyard  and  see'd  her  buried  myself. 
Whatever  be  I  thinking  of?  That  made  me  stop  and 
turn  round  to  look  at  'n  agin.  An'  there  they  was  just 
as  I  see'd  'n  at  first — Mrs.  Durk,  who  was  dead  a  twelve- 
month, an'  Mrs.  Gaarge  Durk  from  the  copse,  standing 
there  with  their  bonnets  a'most  touching  together.  An' 
I  couldn't  hear  nothing — no  talking,  they  were  so  still 
as  two  posties.  Then  something  came  over  me  like  a 
tarrible  coldness  in  the  blood  and  down  my  back,  an' 
I  were  afraid,  and  turning  I  runned  faster  than  I  ever 
runned  in  my  life,  an'  never  stopped — not  till  I  got  to 
the  cottage." 

It  was  not  a  bad  ghost  story:  but  then  such  stories 
seldom  are  when  coming  from  those  who  have  actually 


LIVING    IN    THE    PAST  327 

seen,  or  believe  they  have  seen,  an  immaterial  being. 
Their  principal  charm  is  in  their  infinite  variety;  you 
never  find  two  real  or  true  ghost  stories  quite  alike  and 
in  this  they  differ  from  the  weary  inventions  of  the 
fictionist. 

But  invariably  the  principal  subject  was  sheep. 

"I  did  always  like  sheep,"  said  Caleb.  "Some  did 
say  to  me  that  they  couldn't  abide  shepherding  because 
of  the  Sunday  work.  But  I  always  said,  Someone  must 
do  it ;  they  must  have  food  in  winter  and  water  in  sum- 
mer, and  must  be  looked  after,  and  it  can't  be  worse  for 
me  to  do  it." 

It  was  on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  and  the  distant  sound 
of  the  church  bells  had  set  him  talking  on  this  subject. 
He  told  me  how  once,  after  a  long  interval,  he  went  to 
the  Sunday  morning  service  in  his  native  village,  and 
the  vicar  preached  a  sermon  about  true  religion.  Just 
the  going  to  church,  he  said,  did  not  make  men  religious. 
Out  there  on  the  downs  there  were  shepherds  who  sel- 
dom saw  the  inside  of  a  church,  who  were  sober,  righteous 
men  and  walked  with  God  every  day  of  their  lives. 
Caleb  said  that  this  seemed  to  touch  his  heart  because 
he  knowed  it  was  true. 

When  I  asked  him  if  he  would  not  change  the  church 
for  the  chapel,  now  he  was  ill  and  his  vicar  paid  him 
no  attention,  while  the  minister  came  often  to  see  and 
talk  to  him,  as  I  had  witnessed,  he  shook  his  head  and 
said  that  he  would  never  change.  He  then  added:  "We 
always  say  that  the  chapel  ministers  are  good  men:  some 
say  they  be  better  than  the  parsons;  but  all  I've  knowed 
— all  them  that  have  talked  to  me — have  said  bad  things 


328  A   SHEPHERD'S   LIFE 

of  the  Church,  and  that's  not  true  rehgion:  I  say  that 
the  Bible  teaches  different." 

Caleb  could  not  have  had  a  very  wide  experience  and 
most  of  us  know  Dissenting  ministers  who  are  wholly 
free  from  the  fault  he  pointed  out;  but  in  the  purely 
rural  districts,  in  the  small  villages  where  the  small  men 
are  found,  it  is  certainly  common  to  hear  unpleasant 
things  said  of  the  parish  priest  by  his  Nonconformist 
rival ;  and  should  the  parson  have  some  well-known  fault 
or  make  a  slip,  the  other  is  apt  to  chuckle  over  it  with  a 
very  manifest  and  most  unchristian  delight. 

The  atmosphere  on  that  Sunday  afternoon  was  very 
still,  and  by  and  by  through  the  open  window  floated 
a  strain  of  music;  it  was  from  the  brass  band  of  the 
Salvationists  who  were  marching  through  the  next  vil- 
lage, about  two  miles  away.  We  listened,  then  Caleb 
remarked:  "Somehow  I  never  cared  to  go  with  them 
Army  people.  Many  say  they've  done  a  great  good,  and 
I  don't  disbelieve  it,  but  there  was  too  much  what  I  call 
— noise;  if,  sir,  you  can  understand  what  I  mean." 

I  once  heard  the  great  Dr.  Parker  speak  the  word 
imagination,  or,  as  he  pronounced  it,  im-madge-i-na- 
shun,  with  a  volume  of  sound  which  filled  a  large  build- 
ing and  made  the  quality  he  named  seem  the  biggest 
thing  in  the  universe.  That  in  my  experience  was  his 
loftiest  oratorical  feat ;  but  I  think  the  old  shepherd  rose 
to  a  greater  height  when,  after  a  long  pause  during  which 
he  filled  his  lungs  with  air,  he  brought  forth  the  tre- 
mendous word,  dragging  it  out  gratingly,  so  as  to  illus- 
trate the  sense  in  the  prolonged  harsh  sound. 

To  show  him  that  I  understood  what  he  meant  very 
well,  I  explained  the  philosophy  of  the  matter  as  follows. 


LIVING    IN    THE    PAST  329 

He  was  a  shepherd  of  the  downs,  who  had  hved  always 
in  a  quiet  atmosphere,  a  noiseless  world,  and  from  life- 
long custom  had  become  a  lover  of  quiet.  The  Salvation 
Army  was  born  in  a  very  different  world,  in  East  Lon- 
don— the  dusty,  busy,  crowded  world  of  streets,  where 
men  wake  at  dawn  to  sounds  that  are  like  the  opening 
of  hell's  gates,  and  spend  their  long  strenuous  days  and 
their  lives  in  that  atmosphere  peopled  with  innumerable 
harsh  noises,  until  they,  too,  acquire  the  noisy  habit,  and 
come  at  last  to  think  that  if  they  have  anything  to  say 
to  their  fellows,  anything  to  sell  or  advise  or  recommend, 
from  the  smallest  thing — from  a  mackerel  or  a  cabbage 
or  a  penn'orth  of  milk,  to  a  newspaper  or  a  book  or  a 
picture  or  a  religion — they  must  howl  and  yell  it  out  at 
every  passer-by.  And  the  human  voice  not  being  suf- 
ficiently powerful,  they  provide  themselves  with  bells 
and  gongs  and  cymbals  and  trumpets  and  drums  to  help 
them  in  attracting  the  attention  of  the  public. 

He  listened  gravely  to  this  outburst,  and  said  he  didn't 
know  exactly  'bout  that,  but  agreed  that  it  was  very 
quiet  on  the  downs,  and  that  he  loved  their  quiet.  "Fifty 
years,"  he  said,  "I've  been  on  the  downs  and  fields,  day 
and  night,  seven  days  a  week,  and  I've  been  told  that  it's 
a  poor  way  to  spend  a  life,  working  seven  days  for  ten 
or  twelve,  or  at  most  thirteen  shillings.  But  I  never 
seen  it  like  that ;  I  liked  it,  and  I  always  did  my  best. 
You  see,  sir,  I  took  a  pride  in  it.  I  never  left  a  place 
but  I  was  asked  to  stay.  When  I  left  it  was  because  of 
something  I  didn't  like.  I  couldn't  never  abide  cruelty 
to  a  dog  or  any  beast.  And  I  couldn't  abide  bad  lan- 
guage. If  my  master  swore  at  the  sheep  or  the  dog 
I  wouldn't  bide  with  he — no,  not  for  a  pound  a  week. 


330 


A   SHEPHERD'S    LIFE 


I  liked  my  work,  and  I  liked  knowing  things  about  sheep. 
Not  things  in  books,  for  I  never  had  no  books,  but  what 
I  found  out  with  my  own  sense,  if  you  can  understand 
me. 

"I  remember,  when  I  were  young,  a  very  old  shepherd 
on  the  farm ;  he  had  been  more'n  forty  years  there,  and 
he  was  called  Mark  Dick.     He  told  me  that  when  he 


FOLDING    FOR   THE    KIGMT 


were  a  young  man  he  was  once  putting  the  sheep  in  the 
fold,  and  there  was  one  that  was  giddy — a  young  ewe. 
She  was  always  a-turning  round  and  round  and  round, 
and  when  she  got  to  the  gate  she  wouldn't  go  in  but  kept 
on  a-turning  and  turning,  until  at  last  he  got  angry  and, 
lifting  his  crook,  gave  her  a  crack  on  the  head,  and  down 
she  went,  and  he  thought  he'd  killed  her.  But  in  a  little 
while  up  she  jumps  and  trotted  straight  into  the  fold, 
and  from  that  time  she  were  well.  Next  day  he  told 
his  master,  and  his  master  said,  with  a  laugh,  'Well, 
now  you  know  what  to  do  when  you  gits  a  giddy  sheep.* 
Some  time  after  that  Mark  Dick  he  had  another  giddy 


LIVING   IN   THE   PAST  331 

one,  and  remembering  what  his  master  had  said,  he 
swung  his  stick  and  gave  he  a  big  crack  on  the  skull, 
and  down  went  the  sheep,  dead.  He'd  killed  it  this 
time,  sure  enough.  When  he  tells  of  this  one  his  master 
said,  'You've  cured  one  and  you've  killed  one;  now 
don't  you  try  to  cure  no  more,'  he  says. 

"Well,  some  time  after  that  I  had  a  giddy  one  in  my 
flock.  I'd  been  thinking  of  what  Mark  Dick  had  told 
me,  so  I  caught  the  ewe  to  see  if  I  could  find  out  any- 
thing, I  were  always  a  tarrible  one  for  examining  sheep 
when  they  were  ill.  I  found  this  one  had  a  swelling  at 
the  back  of  her  head;  it  were  like  a  soft  ball,  bigger  'n 
a  walnut.  So  I  took  my  knife  and  opened  it,  and  out 
ran  a  lot  of  water,  quite  clear;  and  when  I  let  her  go 
she  ran  quite  straight,  and  got  well.  After  that  I  did 
cure  other  giddy  sheep  with  my  knife,  but  I  found  out 
there  were  some  I  couldn't  cure.  They  had  no  swelling, 
and  was  giddy  because  they'd  got  a  maggot  on  the  brain 
or  some  other  trouble  I  pouldn't  find  out." 

Caleb  could  not  have  finished  even  this  quiet  Sunday 
afternoon  conversation,  in  the  course  of  which  we  had 
risen  to  lofty  matters,  without  a  return  to  his  old  favour- 
ite subjects  of  sheep  and  his  shepherding  life  on  the 
downs.  He  was  long  miles  away  from  his  beloved  home 
now,  lying  on  his  back,  a  disabled  man  who  would  never 
again  follow  a  flock  on  the  hills  nor  listen  to  the  sounds 
he  loved  best  to  hear — the  multitudinous  tremulous  bleat- 
ings  of  the  sheep,  the  tinklings  of  numerous  bells,  and 
crisp  ringing  bark  of  his  dog.  But  his  heart  was  there 
still,  and  the  images  of  past  scenes  were  more  vivid  in 
him  than  they  can  ever  be  in  the  minds  of  those  who 
live  in  towns  and  read  books.     "I  can  see  it  now,"  was 


332 


!A   SHEPHERD'S   LIFE 


a  favourite  expression  of  his  when  relating  some  incident 
in  his  past  life.  Whenever  a  sudden  light,  a  kind  of 
smile,  came  into  his  eyes,  I  knew  that  it  was  at  some 
ancient  memory,  a  touch  of  quaintness  or  humour  in 
some  farmer  or  shepherd  he  had  known  in  the  vanished 
time — his  father,  perhaps,  or  old  John,  or  Mark  Dick, 
or  Liddy,  or  Dan'l  Burdon,  the  solemn  seeker  after 
buried  treasure. 

After  our  long  Sunday  talk  we  were  silent  for  a  time, 
and  then  he  uttered  these  impressive  words:  "I  don't 
say  that  I  want  to  have  my  life  again,  because  'twould 
be  sinful.  We  must  take  what  is  sent.  But  if  'twas 
offered  to  me  and  I  was  told  to  choose  my  work,  I'd 
say,  Give  me  my  Wiltsheer  Downs  again  and  let  me  be 
a  shepherd  there  all  my  life  long." 


mimm 


O  -^ 


WHITE  sneer  HUA  *«•«  flu   aMMrresaum  soab 


INDEX 

Adders,  sheep-dog's  enmity  to,  67;  effect  of  bite,  273. 

Agricultural  machinery,  outbreak  against,  195. 

Aldermaston,  280. 

Alvediston,  village  on  the  Ebble,  8. 

Antiquaries,  Society  of,  at  Old  Sarum,  21. 

Apollo  of  the  Downs,  an,  34. 

Avon,  river,  8,  9,  18,  25,  224. 

Barford  St.  Martin,  on  the  Nadder,  210. 

Barley  bannocks,  playing  at  ball  with,  220-1. 

Barrows,  destroyed  by  cultivation  and  by  rabbits,  IS,  16;  on  Bishop 
Down,  40,  43. 

Bawcombe,  Caleb:  his  life-story,  45-53;  earliest  shepherding  experi- 
ence, 65 ;  his  mother,  68 ;  his  younger  brother  David,  160,  165,  305 ; 
at  Doveton  Farm,  on  the  Wylye,  190;  in  Dorsetshire,  238;  return 
to  Winterbourne  Bishop,  240;  his  elder  brother  Joseph,  240-1; 
his  eldest  sister  Martha,  307;  memories,  319. 

——Isaac.  Caleb's  father,  history  of,  51-55;  his  children,  66;  great 
Strength,  73;  deer-poaching,  79-82;  early  instruction  in  the 
Bible,  141-4. 

Bird  life  on  the  Downs,  116-26. 

Bird-scarer,  the,  4;  small  boy  as,  217. 

"Birds  of  Wiltshire,"  120. 

Bishop  Down,  human  bones  thrown  out  by  rabbit  on,  42. 

Bithywind,  local  name  of  clematis,  320. 

Bourne,  river,  9-25. 

Bower  Chalk,  village  of,  on  the  Ebble,  308. 

Britford,  sheep  fair,  69. 

Broad  Chalk,  village  on  the  Ebble,  13. 

Brown  thrush,  126. 

Bustard,  a  memory  and  a  place-name,  116. 

Buzzard,  common,  at  Savernake,  117. 

Caste  feeling,  49. 

Cats:  trout-fishing,  174;  killed  by  train,  175;  character  of  Gip,  176; 
a  rat-destroyer,  178;  gipsies'  cats,  178-9;  Sir  Henry  Wyatt's 
cat,  180-1 ;  hunting  cats,  181 ;  poaching  cat  at  Fonthill  Bishop, 
183 ;  a  farmer's  cats,  185 ;  fatal  weakness  in  cats,  186-9. 

323 


334  INDEX 

Chilmark,  village  of,  234. 

Chitterne,  village  of,  224. 

Church  bells,  legend  of  stolen,  239. 

Clarke's  "For  the  Term  of  his  Natural  Life,"  221. 

Clematis,  wild,  local  names  of,  320. 

Codford  St.   Peter,  on  the  Wylye,   148. 

Combe  Bissit,  village  on  the  Ebble,  8. 

Compton   Chamberlain,  village  on  the  Nadder,   120. 

Constable,  painting  of  Salisbury  Cathedral,  19. 

Corn-crake,  caught  by  sheep-dog,  164. 

Coroner,  an  obsequious,  234. 

Cranborne  Chase,  84,  118 

Dark  people  in  Wiltshire,  three  types  of,  257;  history  of  the  Tarks, 

258-63. 
Death  following  death  in  aged  couples,  55. 
Deer,  fallow,  in  Cranborne  Chase,  84;  roe,  284. 
Deer-stealing,  79;  a  keeper  tricked,  87-8;  fights  with  poachers,  88; 

Reed  of  Odstock,  206. 
Devil,  the,  in  a  black  cap,  229;  church  bells  stolen  by,  239. 
Devil's  guts,  name  for  clematis,  320. 
Di-dapper,  183. 

Donkeys,  poisoned  by  yew,  11 . 
Doveton,  village  on  the  Wylye,  144;  farm,  190. 
Downs,  aspects  of  the,  2,  6;   effect  of  the  plough,   15;   silence  of 

the,  328. 
Downton,  village  on  the  Avon,  8. 
Druid's  Head,  the,  on  Salisbury  Plain,  223. 

Earthworks,  destroyed  by  cultivation,  15;  on  Winterbourne  Bishop 

Down,  81. 
Ebble,  or  Ebele,  river,  4,  8,  25. 

Fieldfare,  nesting  in  Wilts,  122. 

Firewood-gathering,  211. 

Flowers,  cottage  garden,  153;  wild  in  Wylye  vale,  154. 

Flycatchers,  habits  of,  203. 

Fonthill  Bishop,  183,  201. 

Found,  the  surname  of,  87. 

Fovant,  village  on  the  Nadder,  280. 

Foxes,  trapping,  104;  gamekeepers  on,  105;   foxes  versus  pheasants, 

106;  Caleb  kills  a  fox,  108;  two  varieties  of,  110;  playful  spirits 

in,  111-3;  a  danger  to  sheep  when  hunted,  115. 
Fox-hound  turning  wild,  279. 

Gathergood,  wisdom  of  shepherd,  101-4. 
Gazalee,  Mr.  Justice,  at  the  Salisbury  Assizes,  229, 


INDEX  335 

Gerarde,  the  herbalist,  320. 

Ghosts,  the  shepherd  on,  325. 

Gilpin,  on  scenery,  2-3. 

Gipsies,  liking  for  cats  in,  179;  south  of  England,  248;  dislike  of 

a  settled  life,  250;  sense  of  humour  in,  250;  carrion  eating,  252; 

stolen  goods  buried  by,  253;  supposed  secret  knowledge,  256;  as 

naturalists,  287-9. 
Goshawk  in  Fonthill  Bishop  Woods,  118. 
Gray  hairs,  from  old  age,  in  dogs,  169;  in  a  mole,  170. 
Grayling,  in  the  Wylye,  158. 
Great  Ridge  Wood,  rabbits  in,  212;  roe  deer,  284. 
Greenfinches,  158. 
Groveley  Wood,  210. 

Harbutt,  keeper,  85;  fight  with  poachers,  88. 

Hares,  poached  by   shepherds,  95;    fond  of  black-thorn  twigs,   102; 

catching,  with  a  shepherd's  crook,   102;  sitting  on  stumps,  285. 
Hawks,  extermination  of,  117. 
Hedge-fruit,   36. 
Hedgehogs,  a  hunter  of,  246;  eaters  of,  248;  gipsies  love  of  flesh  of, 

287;  unknown  habits  of,  288. 
Heytcsbury,  Wylye  vale,  village  of,  151. 
Hindon,  decay  of,  201;  smugglers  at,  203;  birds  in,  202. 
Hoare,  Sir  Richard  Colt,  barrows  opened  by,  43. 
Hounds,  method  of  feeding,  118. 

Iberian  types  in  Wiltshire,  257. 
lerat,  surname  of,  308;  history  of  Ellen,  308-12. 
Imber,  village  of.  and  Imber  Court  Farm,  171. 
Infirmary,  the  Salisbury,  26. 

Jarvis,  the  village  blacksmith,  73. 
Joan,  story  of  the  aged  villager,  214. 

King's  Copse,  New  Forest,  113. 

Knook,  on  the  Wylye,  church  and  manor-house  of,  151. 

Lamb  suckled  by  sheep-dog,  72. 
Lamb  Inn,  Hindon,  202. 
Lilybind,  name  of  convolvulus,  320. 
London,  image  of,  on  the  mind,  23. 
Lord  Lovell,  story  of  the  last,  149. 
Lower  Pertwood  Farm,  205. 

Magistrates,  severity  of,  229. 

Magpies,    122;    destroyed    by    gamekeepers,    123;    at    Winterboume 
Bishop,  123. 


336  INDEX 

Marlborough,  1 ;  Downs,  8. 

Mere  Down,  125-32. 

Mistle-thrush,  122. 

Mobs  in  1831,  195;  their  suppression,  232;  at  Pytt  House,  233. 

Monkton  Deverill,  206. 

Moorhen,  183. 

Nadder,  river,  9,  10,  145. 

Norton  Bavant,  village  on  the  Wylye,  148. 

Oldstock,  village  on  the  Ebble,  8,  206. 

Old  Father  Time,  209. 

Old  Joe,  the  collier,  74. 

Old  Nance,  the  rook-scarer,  166-7. 

Old  Sarum,  19;  excavations  at,  20. 

Open  air,  pleasures  of  the,  3. 

Overrunner,  see  Shrew. 

Owl,  long-eared,  113,  291;  white,  in  the  village,  297. 

Pamba  wood,  279. 

Park,  Mr.  Justice,  severity  of,  228 

Peat,  used  as  fuel,  75. 

Percival,  Mr.,  resolution  by,  in  House  of  Commons,  230. 

Pewsey,  vale  of,  8. 

Pheasant,  preserving  the,  eflfects  of,  106. 

Plantain,  flowering  habit  of,  10. 

Poaching,  the  moral  law  and,  93;  village,  97;  on  the  Downs,  101-3. 

Psalm,  the  hundred  and  ninth,  197. 

Raven,  Elijah,  master  of  the  village,  295-304. 

Ravens:  former  abundance,  124;  attracted  by  carrion,  118-9;  fighting, 

119;  former  nesting  sites,  120;  in  Great  Ridge  Wood,  120. 
Rawlings,  strange  character  of  farmer,  205. 
Roe  deer,  284. 
Rooks,  abundance  on  the  downs,  124;  feasting  on  corn,  125;  attackmg 

root  crops,  291. 

Salisbury,  five  rivers  of,  8,  9;  the  feeling  for,  17;  Leland's  description 
of,  22;  view  of.  from  Old  Sarum,  22;  market-day  at,  23;  streets, 
inns,  and  cathedral,  27;  street  scene  at,  32. 

Salisbury  cathedral,  seen  from  the  meadows,  18;  spire  and  rainbow, 
19;  action  of  the  dean  and  chapter,  21;  interior,  efifect  on  the 
child  mind,  28. 

"Salisbury  Journal,"  279. 

Salisbury  Plain:  limits  of,  8;  effect  of  military  occupation,  10;  cul- 
tivation, 14;  destruction  of  barrows  and  earthworks,  15;  great 
rookery,  124. 


INDEX  337 

Sheep,  eflfect  of,  on  the  downs,  8,  9;  Old  Wiltshire  breed,  11;  South 
Down  and  Hampshire  Down  breeds,  12;  the  shepherd's  love  of, 
327 ;  singular  cure  for  giddiness  in,  331. 

Sheep-bells,  purpose  of,  129-32. 

Sheep-dogs:  old  Welsh  breed  in  Wilts,  13;  Jack,  the  adder-killer, 
67;  Rough,  the  bobtail,  68-72;  an  acquired  conscience  in,  96; 
Monk,  the  fox-killer,  109;  his  tragic  end,  160-1;  life  story  of 
Watch,  159-71;  training,  264,  267-8,  274;  history  of  Tory,  268; 
Bob,  effect  of  adder-bite  on,  272;  Tramp,  the  stray,  276-282; 
return  to  wildness,  211;  Sally,  the  stump-tail,  321;  Dyke,  a  hom- 
ing dog,  321-2;  lost  dog  recovered,  323;  history  of  Badger,  324-5. 

Sheep-stealing,  in  the  past,  221-2;  temptations  to,  222;  anecdotes  of, 
222-4. 

Shepherd,  sheep  following,  131-3;  bible-reading,  138-44. 

Shergold,  surname  of,  224. 

Shrew,  290. 

Silchester,  Forest  of,  279. 

Smith,  Rev.  A.  C,  "Birds  of  Wiltshire,"  120. 

South  Downs,  2,  7. 

Sparrowhawk,  starlings  preyed  on  by,  128. 

Starling,  the  shepherd's  favourite  bird,  126;  taking  refuge  among 
the  sheep,  126;  music  of,  127;  imitations  and  bell-like  sounds 
produced  by,  129. 

Stone  curlew,  117. 

Stonehenge,    10. 

Surnames  in  Wilts,  61-3,  308. 

Sutton  Veney,  Wylye  vale  village,  148. 

Swallow,  a  sheep  dog  chasing  a,  270. 

TiLSHEAD,  village  of,  8,  225. 

Tisbury,  202. 

Titlark,  story  of  a,  50. 

Tollard  Royal,  8. 

Towns  in  Wilts,  names  of,  145. 

Treasure-seeker,  a,  137. 

Turtledove,  123. 

Tytherington,  story  of  a  dog  at,  148. 

Upton  Lovell,  village  on  the  Wylye,  149. 

Villages,  Wylye  vale,  147. 

Warminster,  145-6. 

Warner,  Richard,  of  Bath,  works  by,  133;  on  a  Cornish  custom,  133. 

Watch,  life  story  of  a  sheep-dog,  159-71. 

Water,  in  the  village,  perennial  streams  and  winterbournes,  36. 

West  Knoyle,  124. 


338  INDEX 

White  Sheet  Hill,  8;  shepherd  and  sheep,  132. 

Wild  life  on  Salisbury  Plain,  destruction  of,  10. 

Wilsetae,  257. 

Wilton,  tree-shaded  road,  19;  junction  of  Wylye  and  Nadder  at,  145; 

sheep  fair,  306. 
Wiltshire,  not  a  favourite  county,  1. 
Winterbourne  Bishop,  the  favourite  village,  34-8;  home   feeling   in, 

41 ;  a  village  without  a  squire,  294;  the  village  master,  294;  benefit 

society  in,  299. 
Wish  ford,  a  Wylye  vale  village,  210. 
Wyatt,  Sir  Henry,  fed  by  a  cat,  180. 
Wylye,  river  and  vale  of,  8,  9,  10,  18,  25;  villages,  147;  churches, 

148;  manor  houses,  150;  cottages  and  cottage  gardens,  152-5. 

Yarnborough  Castle,  236. 


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